


Coal Among Diamonds

by Lisbeth_Holmes



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Art, Coming of Age, F/M, Family Feels, First Love, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Original Female Character - Freeform, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, The Granvilles as parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisbeth_Holmes/pseuds/Lisbeth_Holmes
Summary: Witty, daring and with a secret knack for painting Frances Granville arrives at London with two convictions: one, that she is not interested in men, especially not in lords who parade impeccably around courting innocent young ladies at balls only to close their nights in brothels. Two, that if she does not secure a husband, her father will make a match with someone at least twice her age and half her wits. Franny navigates the courting season, her loving and quaint family and her attraction to a certain Bridgerton brother with a charming smile while she finds her own definition of what it means to be a woman in the Regency era.
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/OC, Benedict Bridgerton/Original Female Character(s), Henry Granville & Lucy Granville, Henry Granville/Lord Wetherby
Comments: 49
Kudos: 89





	1. The Reluctant Debutante

**Author's Note:**

> Foreword
> 
> A forewarning, dearest reader. I have never read any Jane Austen novels, neither Julia Quinn’s original series, but I, like most of the ton I assume, have been beguiled by Netflix’s Bridgerton series, and I couldn’t help, but to concoct this fanfic. Now we find ourselves in a precarious situation: as I am not equipped with a proper historical knowledge, neither with the genre-specific jargon, there will be some discrepancies between my storytelling and the era it is set in. Albeit, if you bear with me, I thank you for your perseverance. 
> 
> Yours truly,  
> Lady Holmes

Titled, chaste and innocent – Frances Granville, or more often referred to as Franny, wondered whether that was all she was entitled to be. Whether the only wish for a respectable lady was to be married, in love if one would find herself so lucky, and to produce heirs. Surely there was something else in life to aspire to...

Arriving to London days before the courting season began, Franny held two convictions: one, that she was not interested in men, especially not in lords who paraded impeccably around courting innocent young ladies at balls only to close their nights in brothels. Two, that if she did not secure a husband herself this season, her father would make a match with someone at least twice her age and half her wits. Since her mother recently passed away, Franny became a burden to her father and his newfound wife, gorgeous, complacent and young, therefore she was sent away to be married off.

As she was bouncing along in a carriage on the way to Henry Granville's house, her maid, Annabeth smiled at her encouragingly and she found some reassurance in her company. Annabeth was a few years older than her, short, a little plum, with coal-coloured hair and a kind smile that was a permanent feature of her heart-shaped face.

"Do not worry, my lady. You have always found visits to your uncle most entertaining," said Annabeth.

Letting out a small sigh while looking out of the window, Franny replied, "It is not the visit I fret, per say, but the purpose of it."

Before Annabeth could reply, the carriage came to a halt as they reached their destination. The door was opened, and a servant offered his white-gloved hand to Franny.

"My dear, it's wonderful to see you," as Lucy Granville embraced her in a tight hug, she could smell her lavender scented perfume which reminded her of home.

Henry Granville greeted her with a bow and a wide smile, "We have been waiting for your arrival eagerly."

"Dare I say, dearest Uncle, that the sentiment is not entirely reciprocated. I, of course, am happy to see you, but to be paraded around, in the hope of securing a decent marriage proposal, which is the least of my desire, is not how I would choose to spend my summer." In most households, her answer would have been answered with chastising, but the Granvilles were not anything like any other members of the high society.

"Now my favourite niece, I take offense to that. When have you," he looked slyly to his wife from the corner of his eyes, "or anyone for that matter, has been forced to do anything, least desired, in this house?" replied Mr. Granville with a playful smile.

"Very well, this season might be bearable after all," she smiled widely as they entered the house.

✦

Every inch of the house was decorated with Granville's masterpieces. Franny took her time to marvel at each one. She always admired her uncle for his unique talent, a talent, that she herself secretly shared, not the least thanks to the mentoring of Mr. Granville.

"Now dearest, you shall have plenty of time for those paintings later, you must see the room your uncle and I have prepared for you," Lucy Granville lovingly stroke Franny's hazelnut blonde hair which always found a way to escape from braids. "We must make haste, we must present you before the Queen in a few hours."

"Albeit, I shall be wrapped in some lavishly trimmed frock and present myself as innocent, respectful and an eager marriage-minded lady, shan't I, Aunty dearest?" inquired Franny with an eye roll.

"Precisely, my dear," Mrs. Granville continued leading her upstairs, ignoring her woes. "You and I share the same goal, to find you a husband who would put up with your independence and wits, and may he appreciate it as well. But for that the first step is to wear the dress the modiste has made for you."

✦

As the last debutante to be presented, and also arriving at the very last minute, Franny felt that the odds were against her, not that she expected otherwise. Standing in a silk white dress, delicately embroidered with golden daisies, her favourite flowers, Franny had difficulty catching breath, not least due to the corset tied around her already decently slender waist. She was convinced that the sole use of corsets was to cut women's brains from oxygen, least they invested their remaining energy in speaking. Her hand unconsciously slipped to a necklace with a small golden daisy in the centre, a permanent feature of hers.

"Must I wear these feathers, Auntie? I am neither a bird, nor a pillow," she grimaced as her aunt was arranging the white feathers behind her intricately braided hair.

"Yes Franny, you must make a good impression. This moment will determine your price and the marriage mart," replied Mrs. Granville as she continued to set her dress.

"My entire worth reduced to a single moment," Franny muttered, vexed, "looking like a quill."

"Miss Frances Granville, presented by her aunt, the Right Honourable Mrs. Granville," a deep voice from the other side of the door announced that the moment has come.

"Now dearest, remember to hold your head high, smile delicately, walk slowly, and do not engage the Queen in the eye. Remember to be gracious," Mrs. Granville gave her a set of quick advice and Franny subdued a grimace.

Taking a deep breath as the heavy white doors opened, she glanced expectantly to the room. Ladies and lords, the most honourable members of the ton huddled together on the two sides of the room, eyeing her from head to toe, making their final judgements quickly. Dark burgundy curtains hanging from the windows, crème-coloured walls decorated with golden patterns, and paintings of the finest quality unfolded as she stepped in the room. Franny wondered whether she could find her uncle's handiwork among them, though she would recognise his feature brush strokes anywhere. She dispersed of the living completely, and focused her attention on the paintings, in particular the naked babies floating in the clouds which she found particularly amusing. As her aunt quietly cleared her throat she was brought back to reality. Her eyes fell on the most important person in the room, the Queen stretching out in her throne nonchalantly, her silver-coloured hair stacked up in curls, her white dress complemented by a series of pearls. Franny bowed and curtsied as she felt the Queen's heavy gaze on her. Glanced up, she saw her grimacing in a disapproving style and she felt heat rising in her.

Unexpectedly, the Queen addressed her, "Is there a reason you have arrived late to the season and are stealing my time with this most unruly presentation, Miss Granville?" she inquired, her judging eyes watching her closely.

Franny replied, before she could stop herself, "You must forgive me, Your Majesty. I didn't want to come to London at all."

The room suddenly went silent, all the lords and ladies holding their breath in anticipation, some gasping in surprise, others whispering eagerly. The queen's eyebrows sickled up as she leaned forward, the tension palpable.

"Now I could have your head for that sentence, my dear," she remarked in a low voice, locking Franny dead in the eye. Scolding herself for her audacity, Franny had to quickly come up with a plan to escape beheading, a possible way of avoiding marriage, but not the most pleasant one. She dropped her eyes, and bowed her head, hoping that some mild behaviour might appease the queen. After a few seconds that felt like years, the queen leaned back in her seat.

"Albeit, I suspect it would serve me with more entertainment, had it remained on your neck. Now be dismissed," she shooed her away, no longer looking at her. Franny let out a sigh, grateful for that for the time being her head remained attached to her neck, and started moving back, not turning her back to the Queen. Having escaped death on her first day, she now had a chance to scan her audience. Most of the ladies and lords regarded her scornful looks, or with utter surprise, but no one had a blank expression. Glancing to her right, she saw a group of people bearing great resemblance to each other, standing closely together. A family, and quite a prominent one, she quickly identified the Bridgertons, and a myriad of expressions on their faces. A dark-brown haired girl gasped at her with mouth wide open, but her gaze fell on the three men, all remarkably similar. At first sight, only their expressions set them apart: standing closest to her was probably the eldest, sneering at her, disapproval clear on his otherwise handsome face. In the back, another raven-haired man, rather a boy was smiling playfully at her, clearly amused at the situation. And finally, surrounded by his sisters in the middle, the third Bridgerton brother's dark blue eyes fell on her, biting the lower edge of his lips, his expression was caught up between complete disbelief, curiosity and something Franny could not put her finger on. _Well,_ she thought, _at least I made an impression._

✦

_Now dearest readers, the most unimaginable of all has happened. Miss Frances Granville, a young debutante from the countryside has expressed her reservations joining the marriage season in London, in front of Her Majesty, the Queen! Coming perilously close to a gruesome death, we find ourselves perplexed by her audacity. How this brazen outburst will influence her success in the marriage mart, remains to be seen._

_Yours truly,_

_Lady Whistledown_


	2. A Spot of Orange Paint

As the morning sunlight illuminated the room, it fell on Franny, who was already on her feet, with a brush in her hand, filling the once white canvas with varying shades of orange and yellow. Completely immersed in the process, she lost her sense of time and place as she only focused on capturing the sunrise and missed the knocking at the door.

"We must get you ready for the opening ball at the Danbury house, after all that is the most sought-after event of all," Mrs. Granville chattered as she walked into the room. Realising what Franny was up to, she stood behind her, watching her in silence.

"You have made excellent progress my dear. You must show this to Mr. Granville, he will be delighted to see that you took upon his advice."

"Certainly so. Nevertheless, I shall start practicing portraits soon."

"Should you finish your painting, and clean-up, come down to break fast with us. Then we will pay a visit to the modiste, it is high time for a new dress. A dress, in which you are not allowed to paint," on her way out, Mrs. Granville squinted at the spots of orange paint on her nightgown.

"A completely useless dress, then, I shall have," Franny muttered, as she finished the final touches.

✦

"Now remember Frances," Franny knew that she was about to receive a scolding. Her uncle rarely called her anything but dearest niece, or Franny, except when she was in trouble. In trouble, indeed she was, after last night's memorable introduction.

"This ball is a chance for you to make up for your rather... unruly debut. Whilst we share your concerns about marriage, our reputation is on the line."

"I understand, Uncle. And I apologise once more, it was not my intention to cause damage to the Granville reputation. You have been nothing but kind and supportive of me, and I am grateful for that," Franny replied with genuine regret.

"One could argue that there is not much reputation to be damaged," Mrs. Granville muttered, exchanging their characteristic, knowing look with her husband. "Nonetheless, you promise not to offend any of the high esteemed members of the ton, don't you, Frances?"

"Not even ambitious mamas?"

" _Especially not_ ambitious mamas."

"This evening shall hold no fun for me then."

Mr. and Mrs. Granville sighed.

✦

As Franny entered Danbury Hall, arms locked with her uncle and aunt, she was captivated by the buzzing atmosphere, the crystal chandeliers glistening, the low murmur and laughter filling the room. Naturally, the spectacle of the evening was the impeccably dressed lords and ladies in sparkling dresses dancing to the vibrant rhythm of the violin. Whilst she disapproved of the lavish lifestyle the ton pursued, she was not impartial to beauty, on the contrary, as an artist she was drawn to it, constantly on guard for new material to be captured, painted, immortalised. Speaking of immortality, muttering in excitement, the crowd gave way to new arrivals.

Franny's eyes, as everyone else's in the room, immediately fell on Daphne Bridgerton, the diamond of the first water, the season's incomparable. She couldn't help but feel jealousy rising in her. Whilst she was slender, with long, blonde hair that never seemed to behave as expected, she believed her appearance to be under par. The corset had almost nothing to elevate, she found her nose too long, her face too round, with almost no cheekbones which were particularly fashionable nowadays. She always felt inferior in the company of young ladies who radiated confidence and effortless beauty. Franny held that her value should not be measured by her appearance, yet she couldn't help but feel insecure. She was well-educated, as educated as a lady could be, observant and quick-witted, and on her better days she could be endearing and amiable. Nevertheless, despite everything, she desperately longed to be glamourous and careless, to fit perfectly in, even for a day. Daphne Bridgerton embodied everything lacked: she was graceful, magnificent, with a polite countenance and impeccable manners, and, of course, a wish to be married. Daphne's flawlessness made her painfully aware of her own imperfections.

"She is perfect, is she not, Uncle," she inquired with a touch of sadness in her voice, still in awe.

"Without doubt, she is the very embodiment of perfection," Henry Granville replied, politely bowing to a group of gentlemen passing them. Franny's heart sank.

"Even so, we will never know her true self, I shall reckon."

"How do you mean?"

"What unfolds in front of you, when you look at Daphne Bridgerton? Everything our society equates with the ideal lady: innocence, beauty, high breeding, a never ceasing smile. A pretense, she must put up in every moment, every minute of the day, a role out of which she may never fall, lest her reputation be ruined. I find myself wondering how tiresome her life must be. Of how tiresome it is to be a lady."

Franny glanced at her uncle, lovingly, as she hooked one arm in him, "You seem to understand the struggle I am in quite well."

"I do, to the fullest extent. I have probably never voiced this, but... You yearn to fit in, and yet, you cannot help but be yourself, even if it takes insulting royalties. That requires real courage, to subject yourself to the scornful gaze of society which is quick to judge and reluctant to forgive. I consider you immensely brave, Franny."

Franny embraced her uncle tightly. "Speaking of courage, I consider Daphne to be brave also. To face one's obligations, day by day, without a complaint attest to the greatest strength."

Henry Granville silently kissed his niece on the forehead, wondering whether it would be self-serving to share his secret with her. Franny's eyes followed Daphne around the room, her smile losing its genuinely little by little with each suitor her brother rejected. One cold, scornful look was enough to scare most people away. Although Franny still found it difficult to distinguish between the brothers, their expressions could set them apart. Anthony was always on edge, his countenance fearsome, eagle-like. Colin Bridgerton, the youngest, always smiling mischievously, a well-known charmer, currently courting the season's most interesting new arrival, Miss Marina Thompson. Then, there was the third brother Franny found the most mysterious and yet the most drawn too. Benedict's handsome face resembled an open book, every time she stole a glance, she discovered a new emotion, a lopsided smile, a playful grimace, an amused grin. As if he could feel her watching, Benedict's dark blue eyes locked into Franny's grey-coloured ones. She felt a shiver running through her spine, as she lifted her glass to take a sip nervously. Benedict narrowed his eyes in curiosity, tilting his head. Franny's first thought was that he was looking at her card, but at a closer examination she noticed a spot of bright orange paint on the inner part of her forearm, the remnant of the morning's painting. Refusing to be embarrassed by paint, she locked Benedict's eye, waiting for his response, daring him to make his move. However, his response remained to be seen, as an unknown figure emerged in her view, and the moment was gone as quickly as it came about. The intruder, was a gentleman with stylishly set brown hair, dressed in a coal black tuxedo and a delicate silk vest.

"Good evening Mr. Granville. You must introduce me to this charming young lady you have been guarding the whole night," his warm smile revealed beautiful white teeth and dimples in the corner of mouth. Franny, although turned a blind eye to them, was not immune to the charms of men.

"Lord Wetherby, let me introduce you to _my niece_ ," Henry Granville's face revealed no emotion, but he strongly emphasised the last word signalling the familial relations.

Lord Wetherby bowed deeply to her once again which, after a moment of delay, she reciprocated with a curtsy.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Wetherby."

"The pleasure is all mine. May I have this dance, Miss Granville?"

As soon as she had the chance, Franny shifted her gaze back to Benedict, only to find him gone. "I would be flattered," placing her hand on Lord Wetherby's, she stole a worried glance at her uncle whose straight face was impossible to judge.

"If I may be frank, Lord Wetherby, I would not have expected any of the gentlemen to ask me to dance," Franny commented as she was escorted to the dance floor.

"You would be surprised, Miss Granville. For better or worse, you have certainly captured the attention of the ton," he smiled warmly at her, while spinning her around the room. Franny paid close attention to the steps since dancing did not come naturally to her. As their bodies and eyes were both locked in a close embrace, she wondered whether she should expect a magical feeling. Lord Wetherby was a wonderful dancer, with a never ceasing smile, and with chestnut curls that gave him an angelic look. And yet, despite all his charms, Franny did not feel drawn to him.

"I myself rather share your sentiments about the façade surrounding marriage."

"I am delighted to hear that, my lord. Yet, you have the liberty of dispensing of marriage as a man, a liberty a woman cannot afford." Franny noticed that Lord Weatherby's smile lost its genuinity as they leaned forward. "Albeit, I am rather curious as to why an eligible, and if I may say so, handsome gentleman of your calibre with a bevvy of perfectly decent ladies of his disposal, is disinterested in marriage."

"You are rather curious, Miss Granville, are you not?"

"Naturally, I consider it to be one of my more appealing qualities."

"One of the many," Franny replied with a ghost of a smile and could not help but notice how his brown eyes sparkled in the light.

Turning her head sideways, she caught her uncle eyeing them closely, with what Franny identified to be a look of disapproval. The music came to a halt, so did the dancers.

"I must say so, you have rather cunningly avoided answering my question," Franny pointed out, as Lord Wetherby signed her card.

"My lady, let a gentleman have his fair share of secrets. Albeit, I must keep you pondering, lest I loose your interest," he bowed deeply and said his goodbyes. As soon as he left, Mr. Granville was by her side.

"Are you not happy, Uncle, that I have made acquaintances with your friend? He was kind enough to ask me to dance and keep me company. Not to mention that he is rather pleasing and a decent dancer," eager to uncover the reason behind his odd mood, Franny teased her uncle as she sipped a lemonade.

"Whilst I appreciate his kindness, his intentions might not be what they seem," Lord Granville commented, taking a big gulp of his champagne.

"I am quite aware that he is impartial to marriage. That much he told me," Franny's attention was only half focused on the conversation as she scanned the room in search of the Bridgertons but couldn't find any. Disappointed, she had enough of socialisation.

"Now Uncle dearest, I have paid my dues to London's high society, without causing havoc. May we go home now?"

"Certainly so, let me fetch Lucy."

✦

_Against all expectations and to the regrets of many, Frances Granville did not make any feathers fly at the season's opening ball at Lady Danbury's. On the contrary, she was seen dancing with the very eligible and strikingly handsome Lord Wetherby. Is she so quick to change her mind about the... attractions London has to offer?_

_Lady Whistledown_


	3. The First Caller

“Good morning Miss, I hope I find you awake. This new dress just arrived from the… Oh,” Annabeth trailed off as her eyes fell on the painting Franny was working on, wholly absorbed in the process, her blonde hair sticking out in all directions from the loose bun on the top of her head.

“How do you reckon, Annabeth? It might be one of my best works yet,” Franny asked with a mischievous glint in her eyes, her hand smudged with paint.

“I um… don’t know Miss… is that the Queen, with what might look like a King Pine on Her Majesty’s head?” Annabeth took her guess uncomfortably.

“Precisely. Most fitting, I think. I might as well predict her next appearance. It could also serve as an illustration to that scandal sheet of Lady Whistledown.”

“I don’t think that would be wise, Miss.” Franny didn’t reply but admired her masterpiece, hands on her hips, brush in her mouth, head tilted.

“I shall make you a bath Miss, then you can try on your new dress. I shall braid your hair also.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Franny murmured as Annabeth left the room to start running the water, leaving Franny alone, rather unwisely. Her attention shifted to the dress, surprised to say to find that it was to her liking. Light blue, with shades of lilac, and with a delicate layer of lace interwoven with silver threads, the dress was laid carefully on the bed. But just before her hands could reach it, she remembered that lace and paint rarely mixed well together, and stopped herself from ruining the dress. Perhaps some manners were rubbing off on her, after all. God save me from becoming a proper lady, she thought.

✦

Hand washed off paint, hair braided tightly, dress fitting perfectly, Franny was on her way to the drawing room eager to tell her uncle about her new watercolour.

“Uncle, you must teach me how to paint portraits! I had enough of landscapes and flowers. I want to paint something that would make the ton’s conservative forehead wrinkle. You must comment on my new watercolour of Queen Charlotte with a King Pine on… Oh,” Franny trailed off as upon walking into the drawing room he found two men standing in front of each other: Her uncle, with a sombre and icy expression on his face, and his complete opposite, Lord Wetherby greeting her with a warm, welcoming smile.

“Lord Wetherby, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Franny queried in surprise.

“Well, I was hoping we could follow up on our rather enjoyable conversation of last night,” he replied, giving Franny a bouquet of beautiful flowers.

“Oh, you are here to call on me?” Franny pressed on, still in awe.

Lord Wetherby let out a small chuckle, while Mr. Granville’s face was still grim.

“You must forgive my niece for her bluntness, Lord Wetherby, this is her very first season. Please, do take a seat. Franny, why don’t you serve our dearest guest some tea and biscuits,” walking in, Lucy Granville took control over the situation before it could head to disaster. She shot a glance to her niece, who was knocked out of her bewilderment and offered Lord Wetherby a plate of biscuits which he accepted with another smirk, clearly amused at the situation. Should I curtsy? Franny wondered, nevermind, just concentrate on not dropping the plate on him.

“Dearest, weren’t you on your way to buy some supplies? I am afraid we have a shortage in yellow paint,” she inquired, turning towards her husband, with a pleasant smile.

“Yes, Lucy dearest I was, just before Lord Wetherby graced us with this rather unexpected visit,” Mr. replied, his eyes locking the gentleman’s.

“Unexpected, but most welcome,” Mrs. Granville walked next to Mr. Granville. “I shall gladly chaperone these young people, so you can continue with your day, dearest,” putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, she eyed Mr. Granville with a pressing look, muttering go quietly.

“Very well then, I shall be on my way,” the painter said reluctantly. “Goodbye Lucy, Niece, Lord Wetherby.”

After saying their goodbyes, silence descended to the room, Mrs. Granville smiling impeccably, Franny shifting nervously, while Lord Wetherby sipped his tea quietly, amusement clear in his chocolate brown eyes.

“Is this when you tell Lord Wetherby how flawless my needlework is and how sufficient I am at the pianoforte, Auntie?” Franny teased, breaking the silence.

Lucy Granville replied in the same manner, “Dear God, no. We do not want to scare Lord Wetherby away, do we,” the three of them laughed in unison, Mrs. Granville in a feminine, tinkling voice, Lord Wetherby with a deep chuckle while Franny’s laugh was less controlled and more heartfelt.

As sitting in the drawing room, with her beloved aunt and a perfectly decent gentleman with a handsome countenance and an amiable manner, Franny felt at ease, chattering, laughing and altogether enjoying the careless lives of nobles. Whilst it was pleasant to spend time with Lord Wetherby, surely a marriage required more than conversing in drawing rooms. Sharing a life together, happy moments and worries alike, and of course, children. Franny could hardly imagine herself being a wife, the lady of the house, let alone a mother, responsible for tiny, hopeless human beings, who depended on her for protection, and the various ways she could unintentionally cause damage to them. She shivered, thinking about the loveless marriage of her parents and how sorrow seemed to be a permanent feature of her mother, drawing her energy and youth away day by day, finding escape only in her daughter and painting till the day she could no longer… the never-ceasing expectation to birth an heir, a boy, and the unspoken criticism for she could not.

“Miss Granville,” her train of thought was interrupted by Lord Wetherby, “I must take my leave now. But I had the most wonderful time. I am hoping that you would share a dance with me at the Vauxhall celebration,” flitting a beautiful smile at her, he kissed her hand.

“Thank you for your visit Lord Wetherby. I look forward to seeing you at the event.”

“Now dearest, that wasn’t all dreadful, was it?” Mrs Granville raised her eyebrow playfully as she sipped her tea from a beautifully decorated porcelain cup, now only three available in the household thanks to Franny’s last night stroll.

“To be frank Auntie, not entirely,” Franny replied, leaning on the canape, making use of her chance of not having to keep a lady-like pose any longer.

Hearing the door opening, both of them turned their head in the direction of the entrance. Henry Granville stepped in with some newly purchased brushes and paints.

“I have bought some new shades of orange for you Franny,”

“The most kind of you, Uncle.”

“Why don’t you go and put them to use? I wish to discuss some matters with Mrs. Granville.”

Franny’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but deciding not to push her luck, she grabbed the paints and took her leave reluctantly.

“I trust you will reach your room and not stop to eavesdrop from the stairs,” Mrs. Granville added, knowing her niece like the back of her hand.

✦

“I am afraid, Mr. Bridgerton, we are freshly out of orange paint. My most sincere apologies. Should you come back tomorrow, our stocks will be filled.”

“No problem. I shall come back tomorrow, good day.”

As Benedict left the shop, he wondered what might have caused a sudden increase in the demand for orange paint. A memory of last night’s ball came to his mind, how they locked eyes with Frances Granville, the reluctant debutante. Benedict couldn’t tell why, but she has captured his attention with the defiant expression in her eyes when she realised he has caught sight of the spot of orange paint on her forearm. Most curious, he thought.

✦

As Annabeth did not come to get her ready for the celebration, Franny suspiciously approached the drawing room, only to find it empty. Her aunt was out of the house, conducting some serious business (Franny was probably better off not knowing), leaving her and Mr. Granville alone. As the temperature was agreeably warm with a pleasant breeze, she knew where to look for her uncle. Standing on the patio he put the newly acquired brushes to good use, painting what seemed to be a rather abstract piece. Franny could tell from his blurred lines that there was something preying on his mind.

“Are we not to attend the Vauxhall celebration, Uncle?” she asked, straight to the point.

“No,” with a monosyllabic reply, Mr. Granville’s back was still turned.

“And may I inquire why?” Franny implored, her intonation resembling a demand, not a question.

“You may not,” granted once more with an abrupt answer and a dispassionate tone, Franny grew impatient.

“Does it have anything to do with the fact, by any chance, that Lord Wetherby is counting on my presence?”

“The matter is not up for discussion.”

Losing the very last string of patience, Franny leapt next to her uncle and snatched the brush out of his hand, paint splattering on them. None of them, however, seemed to pay any heed to the spots of paint on their clothes, for both it was their natural habitat. Their eyes locked in a battle of wills. Gazing deeply into her uncle’s eyes, Franny searched for an explanation, but all she could find was resentment and rejection, emotions she rarely saw in her beloved uncle. For as long as she could remember they shared a special bond, a strong sense of kinship, an unspoken understanding, deep caring for each other. But she found no trace of any of that in Mr. Granville’s deep brown eyes. Hurt, Franny let go of the brush, and left without saying another word. Mr. Granville stood alone in silence, staring blankly at the blurred lines of his dark, amorphous painting, the projection of the deep pain he was in. As he looked up to the sky let out a long, painful sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did my homework on pineapples (yes, I am that committed), it turns out that they came to Europe in the 16th c. and apparently Charles II was an absolute fan of them and he gave the name "King Pines". Here you go, I am sure this knowledge will save your lives one day :)


	4. The Art of Chasing Suitors Away

“Franny, pray tell, did something happen between you and your uncle last night while I was away?” Mrs. Granville queried, after having spent ten silent minutes with her niece. Ever since she learnt to talk, Franny never let ten minutes pass without sharing her opinion.

“I assure you nothing happened, Aunty,” Franny replied abruptly, in a cold, even voice. To avoid Mrs. Granville’s quick-sighted eyes, she grabbed the sheet of paper closest to her, which happened to be Lady Whistledown’s scandal sheet.

“The most noteworthy event that has unfolded last night is that apparently the Duke and Daphne Bridgerton fell madly in love. They shared not one, but two dances, the audacity! Can you fathom it, Aunty?”

“You shall not forget that I was not born yesterday.”

“Oh, so two dances does not mean undying love? I should freshen up my knowledge on _the art of the swoon_ ,” Franny added sarcastically and Mrs. Granville could almost see her rolling her eyes behind the shelter of the paper.

“Did you have words with Mr. Granville?”

“No words at all,”

“Listen here, young lady,” what Mrs. Granville’s scolding entailed remained to be seen, as Everly announced the arrival of Lord Wetherby.

“Mrs. Granville, Miss Granville, as always, both of you look ravishing,” walking in with a curious package in his hand, Lord Wetherby greeted the ladies, or rather a lady and a god-save-her-from-becoming-a-lady.

“Lord Wetherby, how delightful to see you,” springing up Franny curtsied, her eyes shifting to the package.

“I was rather disappointed to find that you were not in attendance of the Vauxhall celebration, Miss Granville.”

“My apologies. My… family had other plans for that night,” _which included sulking and not talking to each other, definitely on par with a ball,_ she added in her head. “May I inquire what lies under that sheet?”

“Naturally, I reckoned you would like to paint something more vivacious than a bouquet of flowers. Please, my lady, take a peak.”

Intrigued, Franny uncovered the sheet only to reveal a golden cage with a small, energised yellow canary, who expressed its displeasure of being hidden in high-pitched squeaks the moment it had an audience.

“It is also known for its wonderful singing voice, therefore this little creature might ease the burden of entertaining your guests, in lieu of the pianoforte,” he cast his warm trademark smile.

“Most thoughtful of you Lord Wetherby,” taking a closer look, Franny saddened for she could not imagine a greater injustice done to a bird, born free and created for the very purpose of roaming the skies, locked up in a cage, however pretty and gold. She found it a fitting analogy.

Before they could offer Lord Wetherby any refreshments, to both Lucy’s and Franny’s biggest surprise no less than nine callers were announced.

“How delightful! Do let them in, I am eager to tell them all about my needlework and watercolours! Lord Wetherby, please take a seat, you are in for a treat,” Franny jolted up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. Mrs. Granville wished that she had something stronger than tea within her reach.

Bombarded with various gifts and flowers under the sun, the Granville drawing room was buzzing with suitors. The sensation, however, was short lived.

_“Would you reckon my lord, that nationalism, the very idea that has enabled his rise, might cause the fall of Napoleon?”_

_“Fascinating as it may be, but when a lord boasts of the size of his estates, one is compelled to wonder what he is eager to compensate for. What think you, Lord Hardy?”_

_“I ponder, will industrialisation tear the fabric of society and deepen the existing cleavages? We indulge in the most lavish lifestyle, while food is scarce for many. It follows that the actions of the Luddites, however brutal they may seem, might be justified after all. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Everett?_

_“Might I let you in on a secret, my lord? I particularly enjoy taking baths in mud, freshly collected from the swamp. It does wonders to my skin and hair!”_

_“I have always found it extremely unjust that women should not be engaged in wagering. Mind you, I did lose twelve of our finest stallions on a misplaced bet, but practice makes perfect, does it not, Lord Ambrose?”_

_“How did you find the song, Mr. Green? I composed it myself, I am also sufficient in the pianoforte, let me play an original of mine.”_

_“I once conversed with a seer; she foresaw that I would have a husband with kind eyes. Albeit, he would meet his end in winter first of our marriage. How does your heart serve you, Lord Weaver?”_

_“I have heard from a renowned doctor that cooked food might cause an early death. Therefore, in my household only fruits and vegetables are served. I assure you my lord I have never been this healthy in my life!”_

_“What a lovely idea, Lord Tompkins! I, too, am extremely close to my family. Indeed, when I marry, my aunt and uncle will reside with me. Needless to say, my aunt will manage the household, and my uncle our finances. After all we should not burden ourselves with such tiresome and elaborate activities, should we?”_

As the door was closed behind the last caller efficiently chased away, Franny leaned back in her seat with a victorious smile on her face and took a bite of cake. Mrs. Granville walked in slowly, her face revealed no emotion. Franny was quite aware of, but actively ignored, the trouble she was in.

Lord Wetherby, the premier spectator of the show, sitting silently in his seat, his lean body turned sideways, smirking widely, sensed that the spectacle had come to an end.

“Miss Granville, with all likelihood these were the most riveting couple of hours I have spent in this month or so. I shall be on my way, but I thank you for your time, and I seek the next occasion when we might see each other.”

“I thank you for that compliment, Lord Wetherby, and look forward to it. Goodbye,” Lord Wetherby leaned to kiss Franny’s hands, not taking his eyes off her for a moment.

Clapping slowly, and standing frighteningly in front of her niece, hands folded, brows furrowed, Mrs. Granville started her long overdue reprimand, “Beautifully done, my dear. You have managed to scare away not less than nine perfectly decent suitors. What an accomplishment!”

“Indeed it is, Aunty. Uncle will be delighted!”

Miss Granville took a deep breath, pointed one finger at her niece, but eager to extend the moment of calm before the storm, Franny quickly added:

“Some of those questions were perfectly legitimate. You cannot expect me to sit around all day and converse with my husband about the helpless animal he has shot, or God knows what other immaterial matters.”

“Franny,” deciding to adopt another strategy, Mrs. Granville settled next to Franny, put her arm on her knee, looking her deeply in the eye, “We have never properly addressed your… _aversion_ to marriage.”

“I was under the impression that you and uncle understand the distress I am in,” Franny cut her off, despite clear in her voice.

“You can huff and puff all day, but we shall not be closer to the solution. Now we must address, is it bravado, denial, or even immaturity?”

Franny folded her arms, turned her head sideways and let out an upset sigh.

“You need not get huffy. My inquiry is serious Franny, I wish to understand what is on your mind. Why do you not wish to marry?”

Silence fell on the room while Mrs. Granville studied her niece closely with a curious look, not granting her the release of taking her eyes off her. Franny avoided her aunt’s searching look by familiarising herself with the ceiling which suddenly seemed much more interesting than the conversation.

“You do know that you can tell me anything.”

“Oh, is that so, Auntie? Because you tell me everything. You do share with me why the hall is out of bounds for me on certain nights, or where do you disappear conducting some serious business? Or uncle does share with me while he cannot bear to look at Lord Wetherby.”

Taken aback, Mrs. Granville was silent for a moment. Composing her answer carefully, she took her niece’s hand into hers and gently cupped her cheek so their eyes would meet.

“Your uncle’s business is not my place to tell. You are right Franny, we have been keeping secrets from you, as we wanted to guard your unimpeachable honour. But you have the right to question us, especially now that you have been introduced to society. I shall discuss these matters with Henry. But in exchange you must make me a promise.”

Franny met her aunt’s eyes expectantly.

“You must ponder on my question and we shall discuss it. Were we to plan how to proceed, we must address the underlying reasons. Your uncle and I want the very best for you, but we do not engage in battle without a strategy. Now, being honest with each other is the first step in devising our devious ruse.”

Franny’s face lit up as she embraced her aunt tightly, “I promise, Aunty.”

“I must tell you I found myself amused at the various cheeky remarks you used to scare your suitors away. Unruly, but most shrewd. Nonetheless, we must brace ourselves if one of them withstands the assault.”

✦

_It is a well-known commonplace that a lady cannot have enough suitors. A commonplace, we are inclined to think, Miss Granville finds frivolous. It has been widely rumoured that her newfound pastime is comprised of entertaining her suitors with the most sordid and unbecoming tales. She managed to scare away all but one suitor, beyond doubt not a small feat to accomplish. Will she make good on her promise of avoiding walking down the aisle, or will she make an exception for the perfectly handsome Lord Wetherby, who seems to be wrapped up in her peculiar sense of humour?_

_Lady Whistledown_

✦

Franny admired the most well-known couple dancing together; Daphne’s polite smile replaced by a heartfelt one, the Duke’s reserved countenance gone, they were giggling like children, but gazing into each other’s eyes like adults. Franny wondered whether the gladsome, blissful atmosphere that surrounded them was the mysterious thing called love. Helping herself with some lemonade, she inevitably found herself in front of the eldest Bridgerton brother. Having made eye contact, and lost her chance of a quick escape, she had no choice but to perform the formalities.

“Lord Bridgerton,” Franny curtsied politely, but as he barely acknowledged her, the little devil on her shoulder started nagging her. “It’s a pleasure seeing you, but I do wonder, are you perhaps in pain?”

“In pain, whatever are you talking about,” reluctantly tearing his eyes away from his sister and the duke, Anthony Bridgerton cast an annoyed, superior look at Franny, scolding apparent in his tone.

“Well, you do seem to uphold a severe countenance permanently, one might think that something ails you greatly,” she chattered in the sweetest tone and with the most innocent grin she could muster.

“Now listen here you, impertinent young lady,” turning to her vehemently, his brows rose. Franny suppressed a small chuckle as it was as easy as pie to upset him, “I do not know who you think you are, affronting royalties and making a sport of scaring your suitors away, but you should definitely learn some manners and respect.”

“Certainly sir, I do apologise,” Franny chipped in without turning a hair. “I do hold you in great regard. Indeed, I shall be obliged to take some lessons from you, seeing that you are rather proficient in driving suitors away. You certainly put me to shame, my lord.”

Taken aback, Anthony Bridgerton looked as if he was about to explode, Franny could almost see steam coming out of his ears. Even his sideburns looked more menacing than usual. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to say something, but has was so shocked that no sound came out of it. Finally deciding that yelling at the obnoxious little chit would only damage his reputation, he decided not to dignify her with an answer, but glowered at her and walked away without saying a word. Franny mentally gave herself a pat on the back, having crowned her day of chasing suitors away with the greatest victim. Nevertheless, Lord Bridgerton did take his revenge later when he dragged Benedict away just when Franny has locked eyes with him, failing once again of testing whether the second-born Bridgerton would withstand the assault.


	5. Meeting Mr. Bridgerton

On the surface the Granvilles were spending their morning in an idyllic mood, all in the drawing room, occupied with pleasant activities. However, an air of frustration surrounded two of them: Franny was still rattled and hurt because of her uncle's mysterious silence, and decided not to even look in his direction; Mr. Granville was still not ready to tell her about Lord Wetherby, and was once again cross with her niece for making the front page of Lady Whistledown's "society" papers. However amusing he found her performance, it did not do any good to be in the centre of attention, not especially in front of this meddlesome rumourmonger.

Mrs. Granville, knowing both of them inside out, of course, was quite aware of the situation, but decided not to interfere. Humming pleasantly and sipping her favourite rosehip tea, she knew that sooner or later they would resolve the matter: whether with a fluffy domestic scene, or with plates flying over her head, for the time was yet to be seen, but with the new Whistledown not yet to be published, she was up for either.

"I have heard the most curious rumour," she broke the forced silence, glancing at Mr. Granville who was sketching something on his drawing board, then to Franny immersed in a book, absent-mindedly fiddling with her hair, but none of them met her gaze.

“Please Lucy dearest, indulge us, no less than an hour has passed without a novel scandal,” Mr. Granville murmured in a playful voice, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

"Well, the ton is abuzz for it is rumoured that Nigel Berbrooke had a boy by one of his maids: he refused to provide for them, and sent them away with nothing. What an abominable man, absolutely detestable. Wait till Lady Whistledown hears about it, I assume Lord Berbrooke will abruptly have some serious business to conduct in the countryside.

"Well, I hope his carriage gets robbed on his way. What a horrible man."

“Franny,” her uncle reprimanded.

"Why Uncle, not taking responsibility for one's child and the mother of said child, when he has all the means to do so, attests to the most loathsome character." Although she wasn't entirely clear on the details of how children came to be, Franny knew that it was not at all an unusual occurrence that some lords had children by their maids.

"On the bright side, it does mean that the maid and the boy will be compensated. Not to mention that the last obstacle standing in the way of the Duke and Daphne Bridgerton marrying has been removed," Lucy Granville added to lighten the mood.

"Unless something happened to Anthony Bridgerton, and by no means do I wish so, the obstacle with menacing sideburns is still there," Franny remarked with a small smile in the corner of her mouth. As she closed her book and looked up, Mr. Granville seized the opportunity of having momentarily made eye contact and beckoned to her niece. Weighing whether to maintain her resentment or give in to her curiosity, she finally obliged.

"What do you think?" he queried as his niece surveyed his work. Curled up on the sofa, frowning in concentration, deeply pensive with a book in her lap, the charcoal drawing captured Franny in her natural habitat.

"I believe Uncle you have done a great disservice to this cherub, for she is neither bare-naked nor chubby, not to mention is not floating in the air. Her wings look all fuzzy too.

"Those are not her wings, but her hair which is in a constant state of fuzziness, and that's not a cherub, you know it well. You are wicked, Frances Granville," he exclaimed leaving his coal-coated fingerprint on her unsuspecting niece's nose. Franny tried to hide how much she loved the picture (and her uncle) with a grimace. Mrs. Granville watched them from the corner of her eyes with a loving smile and came to the conclusion that there will be no flying plates today.

✦

"A caller, for Miss Granville," Everly has announced with a straight face, "A Mr. Bridgerton."

"A Bridgerton?" Lucy exclaimed excitedly, setting down the tea in her hand. Rather perplexed by the situation, Mr. Granville offered a handkerchief to her niece and gently nudged her for she was so in awe that she did not notice the cloth given to her. With a moment of hesitation, she removed the coal from her nose and straightened up. She was quite sure that Anthony Bridgerton was the last person who would come to see her, especially after last night's conversation, unless he had some wicked sense of humour. That left two brothers, perhaps… would _he_ come to see her? Holding her breath in expectation, she gazed at the door. Her heart fell a little when the youngest Bridgerton stepped in with a bouquet of gerberas in his hand. After the formalities were observed, Mr. and Mrs. Granville moved to the other part of the room, giving some space to the young people, but keeping their curious gaze on them.

“I am rather perplexed to see you here, Mr. Bridgerton. Especially because I was under the impression that you were enthusiastically courting Miss Thompson,” Franny asked, startled.

"It would be impolite to talk about other lady friends of mine, especially when in the middle of courting such a charming lady as yourself, Miss Granville," he replied, without batting an eye, with a charming smile.

Franny narrowed her eyes in suspicion, "Oh if we are to be this formal, and you truly are courting me, then allow me to showcase my talent in pianoforte," Franny jolted up, and Collin extended his arm as a way of signalling "by all means, go ahead."

As Franny sat down, she cast a glance to the Granvilles: Mr. Granville buried his face in his hands aware of what was to come, and Mrs. Granville shot her a disapproving look. As out of tune as she could, she started singing and hitting the keys, a technique that has turned out to be rather sufficient so far. To her biggest surprise, however, the grin on the Bridgerton boy's face widened as he started singing along the non-existent tune, his flawless tenor voice filling the room. After a minute or so, Franny stopped, folded her arms, and cast her characteristic grumpy look, her hair sparkling with frustration.

"Do you reckon my lord, that it is high time for us to abolish slavery in the colonies also?" Franny inquired, adopting a different approach.

"Absolutely, my lady, a rather hideous and unjustified practice," he replied, not missing a beat. Franny huffed, frustration building in her, but she was not yet at her wits' end. Taking Colin's hand resting on the piano, she turned his palm towards her. Colin Bridgerton was finally momentarily caught off guard by her sudden and, some would say, too daring action.

"You see my lord, this is your lifeline," she started, doing her best impersonation of a palm reader, tracing the line with her index finger, "I am afraid to say that it is quite short therefore you will not reach old age. See, this other line tells us about your love life, it branches out in three directions. Oh," she cried out dramatically, pushing his hand away. "It clearly shows that you are in a relationship with three women, simultaneously! What a scandal! And you dare come here and court me, a perfectly innocent, prim young lady!"

Clouding over, Colin Bridgerton grabbed his heart and fell on his knees in front of Franny, "My lady, I implore you, I beg of your kind heart, do not share my secret with Lady Whistledown, it would tarnish my whole family. Think of what it would do to my sisters, think of the pretty little diamond Daphne," he exclaimed theatrically, and the penny finally dropped.

"Mr. Bridgerton, you are making fun of me, indeed, you have been since you stepped in and I have just noticed! What an evil troublemaker you are."

"That is the highest praise coming from you, Miss Granville, after all, you have a reputation of being quite a prankster," he smirked as he rose.

"I suppose it serves me right to be at the receiving end for once. So did you come here to get acquainted with the horrible, unruly and impertinent Miss Granville?"

"I did yes, but I am disappointed that I could not find her, only her rather humorous and absolutely lovely twin sister, though, with very little musical talent, I must add."

"Hush now Mr. Bridgerton, keep your flirty remarks for Miss Thompson. You may have fooled me, but I do know that your intentions with her are serious."

"So I am caught red-handed. You are quite perspicacious, are you not, Miss Granville? Perhaps you like to share your opinions in a certain scandal sheet?"

"Nonsense, Mr. Bridgerton! One, I do enjoy seeing the reaction of my well-delivered insults. Two, even a blind man could see how your face lights up every time Miss Thompson steps into the room."

“Well, I should probably pay a visit to her, now that you mention it. I had the most amusing time Miss Granville, I hope we shall have an opportunity to court each other again.”

"Yes, Mr. Bridgerton, go, court away, by all means. But do remember that you owe me a great debt for keeping your secret."

Bowing deeply while smiling from ear to ear, Colin Bridgerton said his goodbyes to the Granvilles and left.

"Well, I do think our niece was finally served right. Though I must say the two of them certainly shared some chemistry," Mrs. Granville explained to her husband.

"I certainly agree with you, Lucy dearest. Albeit, the boy has a reputation for being a charmer. Mind you, imagine the hoard of suitors by tomorrow now that a _Bridgerton_ has come to court our niece," the painter replied.

"I am sitting right here, you know," Franny muttered and she started thinking about the way to get her revenge on Colin Bridgerton for a hoard of suitors was the very last thing she wanted.

✦

Attending the ball with hands interlocked with her aunt, who was to chaperone her for the evening, Franny was captivated by the simple yet elegant interior of the room, the cream-white curtains decorated with silver patterns. Lucy Granville excused herself and Franny was left to wonder at the paintings. Her moment of peace, however, was short-lived as she escaped a quadrille only by chance. After that, she decided that avoiding eye contact might be the best tactics for steering clear of unwanted dancing, all altogether people. Usually, she paid her dues of being an eligible lady with Lord Wetherby, whose easy-going yet formidable presence has kept suitors at bay. However, tonight Lord Wetherby was not in attendance and Franny began to feel the repercussions of his absence.

"Miss Granville, I am delighted to see you tonight. Indeed, you have been on my thoughts since our last meeting," out of nowhere Lord Tompkins appeared by her side, with a quaint smile on his face.

"Lord Tompkins," Franny did not finish her sentence as could not pretend anything resembling happiness and quickly started searching for an escape.

"I am rather glad to have found someone who shares my sentiments, I would like to introduce you to my mother," he pressed on and beckoned to an elderly lady at the end of the room, the female version of him munching on a piece of cake with what seemed to be very few teeth. Frowning, Franny was so taken aback that she lost her wits for a moment and could not fathom how her expression did throw Lord Tompkins off.

"Miss Granville," suddenly a kind voice came to her rescue, "you must excuse my tardiness, our carriage seems to have run into another one. A rather curious case, the other driver had only one eye."

"One eye? It must be Philipps, I must make sure that no harm was done. Excuse me," Lord Tompkins hurried off.

Turning around, Franny found herself in front of none other than Benedict Bridgerton, smiling kindly at her with wrinkles around his eyes. He offered a glass of champagne to Franny, "I don't believe we have been properly introduced."

"We haven't, but you require no introduction Mr. Bridgerton."

“Hmm, it seems my reputation precedes me, just like yours does, Miss Granville,” he took a small sip of the champagne and Franny unconsciously mirrored the movement.

"I thank you for your brilliant rescue Mr. Bridgerton. All my efforts are in vain as Lord Tompkins seems to stick around, and even enjoy my quaintest tales."

“Might be a very serious case then, I am glad to have helped.”

"I must say it is rather timely that we have made acquaintance, after all, I had the fortune of meeting the other Bridgerton brothers before. Except for Gregory of course,"

"I do apologise once again for my tardiness, this conversation is rather overdue. How did you meet my brothers? The annoying ones at least?"

"Well, I might or might have not managed to get the rise out of Anthony at the last ball when I applauded him on his skills of keeping suitors away."

"Oh," Mr. Bridgerton gulped on his champagne as a heartfelt laugh escaped him. "I do remember, though I was the one who has suffered his indignation later."

“I do apologise Mr. Bridgerton, I didn't mean to cause any discomfort to you, I just could not help myself.”

"Naturally, I feel the same sentiment at least three times a day. And what about Colin?"

"Well, your younger brother came to my house with a bouquet of beautiful flowers and managed to withstand all my techniques of scaring the suitors away. It took me some time before I realised he was leading me up the garden path."

The genuine merriment in his laugh made Franny feel at ease.

"Now you have a full house of meeting the Bridgerton brothers. The ton seems to have some difficulties with telling us apart, though. I am also known to be the least handsome Bridgerton."

"Nonsense," Franny blurted out before she could stop herself. She blushed as a wide smile encompassed Benedict's handsome face. As always when embarrassed, Franny chose what she knew best in the world, and started speaking, "One only needs to observe you a little bit and quickly discovers that although you share a great resemblance, each of you has their characteristic look. Nevertheless, I must admit, you would make the ton's job much easier if you didn't insist on the same hairstyle."

“What do you mean, Miss Granville?”

"You know a bit spunky, a bit nonchalant and windswept, but altogether coal black."

Benedict chuckled again, "I did not mean our hairstyle, however, that was a very apt description."

Without missing a beat, Franny addressed the second question, "Well, Colin is a well-known charmer, he always has a mischievous, lazy grin on his face. Anthony takes himself ever so seriously that he does not permit himself to smile, instead glares at everyone with a deadly stare."

"Certainly so, I couldn’t have described my brother better. He seems to have lost all the fun since he had become the viscount, not that he has ever been much fun...."

It was Franny's turn to break out in laughter.

"And how do you reckon, what is my characteristic look?" he inquired in a flirtatious tone, turning his body towards Franny, observing her closely. Thinking about her words carefully in order not to reveal that she has been stealing glances at him, she answered hesitantly:

"It is hard to tell, but kindness must be an integral part of it. One thing is sure, that you have rather expressive looks, Mr. Bridgeron," in the end Franny decided to be honest with him.

Chewing on the lower part of his lips and narrowing his eyes Benedict was thinking about Franny's answer and she could identify the same expression on his face that she saw in the courtroom. After a moment of thinking, his face lit up with a kind smile.

“That is very kind of you, Miss Granville.”

"You are most welcome, Mr. Bridgerton. But do not tell anyone. After all, I have a reputation to maintain."

"Your secret is safe with me. I reckon we share our propensity to honesty, for I believe you too wear your heart on your sleeve."

"Perhaps you are right Mr. Bridgerton, for better or worse, I am an honest person."

"That is a great virtue, in short supply nowadays."

"I could not agree with you more."

A moment of silence fell on them comfortable, intimate as they were smiling at each other. Franny could tell Benenedic was thinking as he narrowed his eyes slightly and soon after broke the silence:

"I haven't seen Lord Wetherby tonight. You two seem to spend a lot of time together."

"Yes, we do enjoy each others' company. I do not know the reason for his absence, though."

"Perhaps this will allow me to finally ask you to dance."

"To be seen dancing with a Bridgerton, especially after having been courted by another on the very same day, would tarnish my reputation. The ton might get the idea that I am a marriage-minded-miss after all."

Finishing his champagne, Benedict put down the glass and bowed to Franny as his smile flattened. For a moment she pondered whether he was disappointed but quickly dismissed the thought.

"I won't take up any more of your time, then. Enjoy the rest of the evening Miss Granville, and I am glad to have made your acquaintance."

As he left, Franny suddenly felt that she would have liked to continue the conversation much longer, for it was definitely the highlight of the night. She turned around instinctively to steal another glance of Benedict, who did the same at the very moment, and their eyes locked. A curious feeling ticked Franny's senses, and she wondered, did he really say _finally_?


	6. Rivalry

"Brother, can you give me a hand?" asked Colin Bridgerton who was trying to balance an enormous bouquet of red roses, a gift box and most importantly a plate of cookies in his hands. "Would you fill out the card for me? Your penmanship is neater and you already have a quill in your hand."

"I don't mind if I do, as long as you are out courting ladies I am free of your presence," Colin threw a barely perceptible grimace at him over the roses.

"Who is the lucky lady?"

"Write please: _to Miss Granville, with undying love, Yours, Colin Bridgerton_."

"Colin," Benedict queried with his typical half-scolding, half-interested intonation which he specifically reserved for his younger siblings. "Why exactly are you sending a bouquet of _red roses_ to... Miss Granville?" he raised a curious eyebrow at him.

"Why should I not be sending a beautiful bouquet to a beautiful lady I am currently courting, Benedict? Do you need me to explain how courting works?" he teased his brother in an impudent tone.

"That will not be necessary, thank you. Though I am sure a bouquet of roses is the last thing Miss Granville would like to receive."

"Perhaps you would like to send the roses yourself, Benedict?" he suggested with a cheeky grin.

"No, and if I were to send flowers, surely they would not be roses for they are very conventional."

"Is that so?" Colin’s eyebrows rose and a mischievous smile spread on his face. "I didn't know that you happened to be an expert on flowers, dearest brother. Or perhaps you are an expert on Miss Granville?"

Benedict made a face that only an older brother having enough of a younger sibling can, and threw a pillow at him, which Colin, unfortunately, managed to evade.

✦

Franny was in one of her moods; she called it artistic, Mrs. Granville called it rude, and Mr. Granville simply tried to avoid it. Standing in front of the easel, furiously splashing paint all over it as if her life depended on it, Franny was so immersed in painting (if one could call it that) that no one dared to speak a word to her. They have learnt not to as her most acerbic insults were usually given in this state. On most days, painting took her mind off things and offered relief from overthinking everything under the sun, but sometimes when thoughts were frantically running in her head, she let her body take over and poured her frustration out on the canvas.

She did wake up on the wrong side of the bed and slept very little because of having constantly replayed last night's conversation with Benedict over and over, and also because Lord Archibald Tewksbury, the most serious name Franny could come up with for a small, yellow canary, seemed to be determined not to let its owner get even a minute of sleep, maybe as a way of expressing its disagreement with its new name. Not to mention that a big bouquet of red flowers was waiting for her with a note attached to it saying _With undying love. Yours, Colin Bridgerton_ as the latest and most wicked reification of the prank that has unfolded between Franny and Colin. On top of that, not soon after having taken breakfast and incidentally broken no less than three eggs, Everly has announced that a great number of callers were waiting on Miss Granville. This sent Franny, already furious, over the edge, and she declared, so loudly that probably even in the servant's quarters could be heard, that she was sick and tired of suitors and Everly might as well just tell them to go to hell. Mrs. Granville smiled at him and added, _probably just tell them that Franny is feeling under the weather and she will gladly welcome all of them on another day._ Huffing and puffing all the way up the stairs and foreshadowing her arrival, Franny came across the hall with her uncle who handed her a painting board, nudged her gently, and ordered her to go paint, immediately. As she reached her room, she yanked the window open and threw the roses out which landed on one of the suitors' heads. News, of course, travelled fast.

✦

_This Author believed that she knew the use of a beautiful bouquet of red roses: in most cases when a gentleman declares his love to an equally gorgeous lady, it symbolises his affection towards her. A bouquet of beautiful red roses, we learnt today, also have the tendency to fly out of windows, especially if they happen to be sent to Miss Granville. The aforementioned lady seems to have reached the height of her popularity as the Granville house is reported to be buzzing with suitors, who were rather disappointed to find that the host was not in a condition to welcome them (reported to be struggling with the symptoms of unwanted attention). London’s most infamous charmer, Colin Bridgerton is leading the courting, for he was seen the day before leaving the house with a wide grin on his handsome face which has prompted this high demand. It seems that Lord Wetherby has got some competition. Albeit, a little competition over a lady's heart has never worn any gentleman down._

_Lady Whistledown_

✦

"Peacocks, stuffed peacocks. And wild parrots locked in golden cages. Not to mention that the artificial trees are ridiculous. I'd like to meet the one who has come up with this idea of a design," Franny grunted, the morning's bad mood still not completely distilled.

"Hush now Franny, this is a perfectly lovely party and you have been a menace for the better part of the day. We arrived late because of you, so you might as well let me enjoy the rest of what is left of this evening. Why don't you fetch me a glass of champagne and have one yourself why are you at it?" Mrs. Granville suggested or rather ordered her niece.

Her aunt rarely lashed out at her so Franny realised that she must have been quite a handful the whole day, for reasons she could not exactly put her fingers on. She had no idea why she came to this party, but it might have to do with the fact that her eyes were constantly searching the room for a certain windswept coal-black hairdo. And she was also itching to get her hands on Colin Bridgerton to “thank” him for the roses. Scanning the room in search of someone has also the danger, Franny quickly learned, of locking eyes with someone one wanted to stay far away from. As soon as Lord Tompkins caught sight of her, he made his excuses and started walking towards her. Franny turned around, quickly making her escape, glancing behind her shoulders, only to find herself almost having crashed into not else, but the queen who for some reason has chosen to put a sheep on her head, striking Franny's imagination about her next portrait. What about a cloud, or a puddle? Next to the queen's side was her strikingly blonde and equally handsome nephew, the Prince of Prussia. Gasping, Franny curtsied as politely as she could and muttered her greetings next to her heartfelt apologies. After all, she quite enjoyed her head attached to her torso.

"Ah, are you here to cause some havoc, Miss Granville, or maybe throw some insults at my nephew?' the queen's painted eyebrows rose highly, mischief glittering in her eyes as if she was daring Franny to do so.

"Not at all, Your Majesty. I hold absolute respect for His Highness and the great Kingdom of Prussia. Indeed, I do find the liberation of peasants and the school reform undertaken the most enlightened."

"Thank you, Miss Granville," taken aback, but granting her a sweet, handsome smile Prince Friedrich certainly did not expect that response. "You seem to be most up to date about the state of affairs."

"Yes, Your Highness, I like to be informed of what is happening around us, especially in this rather horrendous war we are engaged with France."

"Perhaps Miss Granville fancies herself to be a military adviser, not a young debutante barely out of her leading strings," the queen chimed in, bored with the direction the conversation was going.

"Oh, I wish dearly. I am deeply concerned about the aftermath of this conflict and that Prussia might be wiped out of the," recognising the sarcasm in her voice a tad late, Franny quickly changed the subject, "Oh, of course, I meant that I hope Your Highness will have a wonderful time in this wonderful country of ours, especially at this wonderful party." One or two wonderfuls could be used in a sentence, but three clearly implied everything but wonder. Franny gulped, thinking whether she has gone too far, but Friedrich's smile widened. Amused at the situation, he lifted Franny's hand and placed a gentle kiss on it.

"Most intriguing, it is _wonderful_ to make your acquaintance, Miss Granville," with a playful glint in his turquoise eyes he said his goodbyes while the queen cast a frustrated and yet amused look at her.

✦

Letting out a long, relieved sigh Franny promised to herself that she would get better at running away from unwanted suitors.

"Miss Granville, you have deviously fooled everyone, for all along you had your eyes on a prince," Franny could feel the smile in the teasing voice. Carefully rearranging her grin into a grimace, she turned around with as much grace as she could.

"Hmmm Mr. Bridgerton you must not think yourself so smart, for it is a commonplace that every girl dreams of a prince sweeping them off their feet, resolving all their problems and making them pretty little princesses, do they not," she commented wryly and the playful glint in Benedict's eyes showed that he picked up on the sarcasm.

"Though I must admit the prince is rather charming and handsome," she added quietly, her cheeks turning slightly pink. Benedict, who had the right amount of self-confidence not to feel offended when another man's charms were praised, even if by the infamous Frances Granville, surveyed the prince with a curious expression. Indeed, his curly, straw-coloured hair, matching beard and kind eyes gave him a pleasant countenance. And, of course, money, power and estates could make anyone glow, not that the prince seemed to boast of any of that.

The parrot next to them chose this moment to let out a resentful squawk making Franny jump in a very unladylike manner.

Benedict chuckled, "You don't seem to be fond of parrots."

"I like parrots just fine," Franny replied, crossing her arms mutinously. "What I don't like is a bird in a cage, especially when it is for the sole purpose of entertaining guests. It is positively awful that we use everything for our pleasure. Imagine how this poor little creature might be feeling: no space to stretch its wings, loud music and all these ladies looking like hideous oversized birds. This poor parrot must be insulted." Benedict chuckled under his breath as he found her frustration cute, but did not want to further anger her. Indeed, the passion in her voice made her glow and he felt intrigued.

"Oh, I am sorry my lord," she clasped her hand over her mouth. "My aunt has already remarked that I have been annoying the whole day, _a menace_ , to be precise. So I shall stop fussing, and ask about the weather."

Benedict could have listened to her fussing longer, but he decided to make use of this opportunity to raise another issue and playful eyebrow: "The weather is going crazy nowadays. I heard that today it was raining roses,"

"Mr. Bridgerton, I did not take you for someone who indulges in scandal sheets," she teased him with a sly half-smile, frowning.

"Well Miss Granville, as a matter of fact, I do not. Albeit, one cannot help but hear the latest gossip when he is surrounded by no less than four sisters."

"Bouquets of roses tend to fly out of my window when they attract a hoard of suitors. My day has been hell many thanks owed to your brother. Indeed, you might help me devise my revenge unless of course, your family loyalty prevents you from doing so."

"Nonsense, no Bridgerton would pass up an opportunity to tease another Bridgerton. I am yours to command."

Before Franny could sketch her plan, Lord Wetherby made his way to them, greeting Franny with a charming smile and Benedict with an almost imperceptible nod.

"Mrs. Granville, you look lovely today, and I am glad that we finally see each other. How have you been lately?"

"I have been having troubles with a rather wicked Bridgerton," Franny responded, but her attention travelled to the other side of the room. Lord Wetherby surveyed Benedict suspiciously, trying to discern whether he was the source of Bridgerton-induced frustration. Benedict met his gaze boldly.

"Oh not this Bridgerton," quickly realising her mistake, Franny instinctively put her hand on Benedict's upper arm. Lord Wetherby did not miss the gesture and his eyes were glued to her hand. "Benedict has been nothing but kind to me, saving me from the clutches of Lord Tompkins. Twice now, actually."

Benedict noted that for the first time ever she called him by his given name, he definitely liked the sound of it. Taking advantage of his situation he lifted Franny's gloved-covered hand to his lips, placing a small kiss on it, "It has been my pleasure, my lady."

Franny tore her gaze from his aunt to raise a curious eyebrow at the gentleman for she could not understand why he suddenly became so touchy-feely. She liked him more when he was forward and witty than debonair and formal.

"How is the canary I have gifted you?" inquired Lord Wetherby, trying to get Franny's attention.

"Lord Archibald Tewksbury? He is fine, in fact so fine that he has been making a sport of not letting me get any sleep. The cage might be the next thing flying out of the window, though," Franny's eyes went afar once again. Benedict let out a heartfelt chuckle and did not miss that just a few minutes ago she remarked how she disapproved of imprisoned birds. Lord Wetherby's usually calm and undisturbed countenance was strained.

"I don't mean that of course, I would never hurt a living creature," she quickly added, glancing at both of them. Benedict wore a wide, lazy grin and Lord Wetherby an affable expression, but there was something stiff in the way they both held themselves. Franny could not fathom what was wrong with them, but to be frank, she was rather concerned about the way her aunt was chatting with Lord Weaver.

"I do apologise for my absence, my lady, and I thank Mr. Bridgerton for his assistance," Lord Wetherby smiled artificially at the other man, short of any thanks. "Albeit his assistance will no longer be necessary now that I am back.

Benedict arched a curious eyebrow at him, drew himself up, towering above Lord Wetherby, who did not flinch but stood his ground. Franny seemed not to notice the vying unfolding in front of her very eyes as her attention was fixed at her aunt who seemed to be enjoying herself in the company of Lord Weaver. As perceptive as she was, sometimes she managed to be completely blind in the face of, some would say, more important issues.

"Well, if you don't mind Mr. Bridgerton, I would like to accompany Miss Granville to the dance floor."

"I do happen to mind, Lord Wetherby, as I was just about to ask her myself," Benedict pushed back, the tension palpable between them. Lord Weaver whispered something in Lucy's ear that gave Franny the chills and a strong sense of frustration came over her. Remembering that she had failed to bring a glass of champagne to her aunt, and taking it as a chance to intervene, she grabbed two glasses, completely missing that the two men, with arms extended to her, were waiting for her answer.

She gave both of them a glass of champagne, completely and utterly misinterpreting their gesture, "If you excuse me, gentlemen, I must find my aunt now. It has been lovely to talk to both of you and I hope you will enjoy the rest of the evening. Do stay away from the honeysuckle though, I believe it has some wildlife inhabiting it," she said her goodbyes absent-mindedly, stealing a quick glance at both of them.

The two gentlemen were left standing in front of each other, with champagne in their hands, and without a lady to dance with. Lord Wetherby, completely deadpan, glared at Benedict, then turned tails and left without saying anything. Benedict automatically gulped the champagne down then could not help but let out a heartfelt chuckle for the situation was hilarious.


	7. What Happens in Somerset House... [Part One]

"Do you know, Franny, where the next social event will take place?"

"Hmm, let me guess Aunty, it must be extravagant, able to host half of London, the wealthier and more fashionable half, there must be refreshments of alcoholic nature and food, maybe even live animals. A zoo is my best guess, but one could argue we are already in one."

Henry Granville chuckled at his niece's usually brilliant remark while Mrs. Granville did not miss a beat.

"At Somerset House."

"Really," Franny exclaimed, her face lighting up with a huge grin. She jumped up, completely forgetting about the teacup in her lap, and with impressive agility, nobody would have attributed to her, she managed to catch the piece in mid-air. Neither of the Granvilles bat an eyelid.

"I am in raptures, Aunty! I can hardly believe that the Queen is letting us in! I cannot wait to marvel at all the paintings, especially Uncle’s! I must make myself ready," her excitement indeed was hardly contained as she ascended the stairs with an unusual vigour to get ready for a party.

"I am glad that Everly did not prepare my grandmother's china set for today's tea," Mrs. Granville commented.

"I don't think he ever does when Franny is around. That man is awfully clever and forward-thinking, we do not give him enough credit," acknowledged Mr. Granville.

✦

Franny's eyes were glittering with awe as she stepped into Somerset House, covered from floor to ceiling with a wide variety of state-of-the-art paintings. It was as if a dream had come true, to make a social appearance while in practice examining pictures all day was the greatest gift she could receive. She could hardly believe that the queen had let the ton in, therefore she was determined to enjoy this momentary lapse of judgement while it lasted. Her aunt needed to remind her multiple times to close her mouth and do not prance in front of the highly acclaimed members of the ton, with little use nonetheless. As Lady Danbury snatched Mr. Granville away upon their arrival and Mrs. Granville decided to meet up with some of her friends to discuss the latest state of affairs (also known as gossip), Franny was left to mingle, but exceptionally she did not mind it. Strangely, she was even up for some suitors chatting her up as talking enthusiastically to someone was more socially acceptable than muttering to herself.

Naturally, everyone turned around when the Bridgertons entered. Daphne Bridgerton, always the subject of curious and admiring eyes, her mother, who has been playing the self-appointed wing-woman for her numerous children, and the three ravishingly handsome and very eligible Bridgerton brothers, the most valuable catches of husband-hunting. The way the viscountess's eyes settled on certain darling debutantes Franny was sure she was advertising them to her eldest son, who beat a hasty retreat upon arrival. Her next victim would have been Benedict if he had not made his escape by tearing his hand away from her mother and gesturing no excessively. She chuckled at the scene as in her mind's eyes she imagined herself enacting a very similar manoeuvre if her aunt had sent her mind on introducing her to some bachelors. Finally, Lady Bridgerton settled for his youngest and sweetest son, and Franny could find some satisfaction in the thought of Colin having to endure an afternoon of matchmaking.

Because a strange sense of self-torment has come up to her, Franny has decided to join her uncle and Lady Danbury, but before she could make her way to them, she spotted Benedict. He was frowning, his lips were drawn in a downward line of what seemed to be a pondering expression. Curious about what he was about to say, but not wanting to reveal herself, she settled close to them, with her back turned, at the ideal distance for eavesdropping. Over the years, she had accumulated considerable experience in gathering information while staying invisible.

"It's much too cold," he pointed out to Lady Danbury in a confident tone. _Oh no_ , Franny thought because she knew that the painting they were discussing was her uncle’s, not his best, but still good enough to make it to Somerset House.

"Where's any sense of the subject's spirit?" _If you must know, Benedict dearest, the subject had little spirit and ever fewer wits. Well, Franny, if you are going to interrupt, this is your very moment because Lady Danbury, the devious troublemaker she is, is certainly not going to._

"And the light! Given the quality, I do wonder why the piece was not skyed with the other daubs." _Oh no Benedict, that was way too harsh, the damage has already been done._

"Perhaps we should ask the artist," Lady Danbury suggested and Franny could almost see her mouth twitching in a sly smile.

"Now that would be something Lady Danbury," _boy, you have walked right into the trap, willingly and confidently._

"Hmm, Mr. Granville, why was your piece not skied?"

"Mr. Granville, I," Benedict jabbered, shock audible in his voice.

"If you will excuse me, um, I must find my wife," Mr. Granville made his leave quickly. Franny breathed a sigh of relief as she judged from her uncle's intonation that he was not deeply hurt, a bit frustrated, but he knew his talent enough not to be thrown off by some criticism. Benedict, on the other hand, was stunned and painfully skunked by Lady D.

"You diabolical... How could you let me rattle on like that?" he accused Lady Danbury, who was famous for taking pleasure, and in most cases inciting, incidents like this.

"How could I not, my dear Mr. Bridgerton? It was riotously funny, you must admit," she commented proudly and left Benedict with his hands on his hips to ponder on how cleverly she played him.

Franny promised to herself that she would later console her uncle, but for now, Benedict looked as if he could use some kind words.

✦

"Mr. Bridgerton, how lovely to see you here," she gave him a welcoming smile, genuinely happy to see him.

"Ah, Miss Granville," he greeted with a small smile but did not continue the sentence.

"I see you have made acquaintances with my uncle."

"Your uncle?" he regarded her with a puzzled look, his eyebrow raised. In the fleeting and most embarrassing moment he has seen Mr. Granville, he did not seem to have many similar features to Franny.

"Yes, that is the familial relationship we share."

"Miss Granville, if you had the chance, could you please tell your uncle how deeply sorry I am," he pleaded with honest regret in his voice.

"Do not worry Mr. Bridgerton, I assure you my Uncle can take criticism. And I do know that if you have not been tricked by the devious Lady Danbury, you would have never said those comments."

"You heard what I said?"

"Well, I happened to be, completely accidentally, of course, standing nearby and could not help but overhear it."

"But then, Miss Granville, you are no better than Lady Danbury. You could have stopped me!"

"Under different circumstances, I would take that as a compliment. Albeit, you did not give me a chance, Mr. Bridgerton, you were so hellbent on embarrassing yourself. Unless I had thrown myself at you or yelled across the room, neither of which would have been unexpected behaviour on my part, but both arguably would have resulted in more embarrassment, there was no way to interrupt."

"Hmm, yes, you are probably right. Do you often throw yourself at people, Miss Granville?"

"I used to do it more often in my younger years. Then I have discovered the power of words and learnt that they can have the same effect and require much less agility. You see, I can be quite idle.” Benedict chortled, giving a sign to Franny that she was on the right track of cheering him up.

“Moreover, I agree with you. It is indeed very dark, and my Uncle could not capture the personality of Mr. Stevens, but, if I might add, there was not much to capture."

Benedict chuckled again and Franny was happy to see his mood lighten, "I would be happy to hear more about your criticisms, most people seem not to have any intelligible to say."

His face lit up in a genuine smile making Franny's heart skip a beat. Offering his hand gallantly, he said, "Dearest Miss Granville, may you promenade with me on this fine afternoon and share your sharpest comments about the daubs which are not skied. And, of course, warn me if any of the painters are standing in proximity?"

"I would be delighted, Mr. Bridgerton," she accepted his hand, "Though I cannot guarantee the second."

✦

"What about this piece?" he cocked his head mischievously to the side as there was something wicked about gazing at a curvy lady, completely naked, in the company of a perfectly prim, decent young lady.

"Well, Mr. Bridgerton, that is the very example of a woman portrayed as an object of desire. For I can tell that no one in their right mind would adopt that position, indeed it is anatomically impossible to hold that pose longer than five minutes without wanting to poke the painter's eye out."

Benedict laughed out loud, shaking his head. They stepped slightly to the right to assess the next piece.

"What emotion does this one stir in you?"

"I feel famished, those pearls look appealing. Though I do not think this was in the intention of the artist."

"What about this?"

"Oh yes, a tour is not complete without a dragon being heroically cut down."

It was Benedict's turn to share his opinion, "Well, that cradle surely looks as if it was about to crumble under the weight of that well-fed baby."

"Mr. Bridgerton," Franny exclaimed in a scolding tone. "I don't believe it is proper to say anything bad about baby Jesus, that amounts to blasphemy."

"Hmm, I did not notice that it was baby Jesus, I do heartfeltly apologise and beg for forgiveness."

"Do not be surprised if lighting hits you next time you go to church."

"Now this," Benedict started but caught sight of Franny's mouth curving upwards, "is possibly the most brilliant picture I have seen all day. Look at the lines, masterfully painted, the colour balance is spot-on, and the figures speak to me."

"Now Mr. Bridgerton, you are teasing me. You must have noticed that it was my Uncle's handiwork."

"As a matter of fact, I did not, but I intercepted your expression. Albeit, I might have exaggerated, but I do think it is a beautiful piece of work, and the figures are quite lively."

"This is one of his earliest works that are on display. The lines are not so refined, but indeed there is a general sense of happiness that comes clearly across the picture. It reminds me of warm summer nights."

"Your uncle is very talented."

"Definitely. Most of the things I know I learnt from him."

"Do you also paint, Miss Granville?"

"Of course, I do, Mr. Bridgerton, it is one of the requirements of what I call the _masterful three of the swoon_ : watercolours, embroidering and the pianoforte."

"No, I meant do you _paint_?" he inquired with a tone that implied paintings that went beyond watercolours of inanimate nature.

Franny went silent for a second, contemplating his question: "I like to think so, yes."

"I would like to see some of your works."

Benedict did not miss how quiet she grew and almost added _I did not ask for your hand in marriage, Miss Granville,_ but he quickly stopped himself, realising that the request might have carried more weight than he first thought, after all, he would need to visit the Granville house to execute it. To be honest, that did not seem a horrible idea at all. Franny bit the lower part of her lip and fixed her attention on the picture in front of her to avoid eye contact. She has never shared her work with anyone except her aunt and uncle. To give a glimpse into her pictures, which were in most cases the manifestations of her feelings, thoughts and dreams felt very intimate. Not to mention that Benedict would have to come to her house, maybe even her room and that went far beyond the purpose of a polite visit.

"Maybe one day you will, but you must earn it Mr. Bridgerton," Franny finally responded in what might have been a flirtatious tone, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes, casting him a mysterious little smile.

Benedict’s lips curved into a charming half-smile, for Miss Granville surely had her set of feminine wiles to arouse a man’s interest, even if she did not know it. He noted that the air of secrecy looked good on her and felt intrigued. He has, after all, never run away from a challenge, "I will work ceaselessly to earn the honour."

“I expected no less from you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

They walked on, stopping in front of another piece. Benedict started explaining, "This picture, I believe, symbolises loyalty. The protagonist, as implied by its central position, is clearly the dog, ageing, yet still full of life. He gazes at the man, standing a few inches away, longingly, tired to follow him, but he will do so in a minute the same way he did for the last decade."

"Hmmm," Franny muttered, stepping forward to take a closer look, "I would agree with you Mr. Bridgerton, but at closer circumspection, I must tell you that this is a sheep, in need of a shearing no less, but definitely not a dog. Alas, your whole theory is ruined."

Benedict laughed deeply which was so infectious Franny joined in. A few heads turned towards them for their genuine merriment was loud, honest and bold. Franny forgot to worry about her reputation, of what it might mean to be seen with a Bridgerton. She forgot to overthink, and she was just in that moment with Benedict Bridgerton. He tended to have that effect on her, to put her worries and mind at ease and make her laugh out loud without feeling an urge to look over her shoulders. And when his lips extended into his broad, genuine, charming smile Franny's heart leapt, and air often was in short supply. Was she catching feelings for him? And more importantly, did he reciprocate the feelings? Nonsense, it was impossible that a Bridgerton, least the kindest one, would be interested in her. She must not put silly ideas in her head, after all, as her aunt used to say, silly little ideas tend to get silly little girls in trouble. But she was never silly, and not little anymore, and famous for getting into trouble. Maybe she was finally up for some trouble, especially if it involved Benedict Bridgerton...


	8. What Happens in Somerset House... [Part Two]

"What about this picture? Surely you find it familiar, Miss Granville," Benedict's question broke Franny out of her reverie. The picture in question captured a lady in a room full of flowers of all types and colours one could imagine. Franny could almost smell the heavy mixture of scents hanging in the air.

"To be frank, Mr. Bridgerton, this picture reminds me of squandering."

"Is that so? I thought it would remind you of the life of a young debutante amid the season."

"Yes, of course, albeit... Each day suitors give her a bouquet, the next day they do the same, and it continues on and on. Until, of course, she finds her betrothed. The day before yesterday I had 32 bouquets in my living room, and it made my heart sadden. For me, it seems such a waste of flowers and money. Do not get me wrong, I appreciate the gesture, but I wish we were more... _conscious_."

"Hmm," he cocked his head slightly and surveyed her curiously.

"Even so, I support local businesses, after all, flower shops owners do need to put food on their table, and I have the utmost respect for people who work for a living."

"I do, too," Benedict commended in a serious tone.

"Then we are in agreement once again, Mr. Bridgerton," she cast a sweet half-smile at him while her eyes darted to the next picture. Benedict's attention, however, remained fixed on her, examining her deep in thought. She was awfully clever, that much was clear from the very first moment, her sarcasm and humour both attested to it. Her eyes, the colour of the cold, winter sky, were in constant motion, examining and analysing everything around her, her mind never at ease. When she spoke, clear and loud, she did in a tone that commanded attention without her noticing it. Her way of thinking was strikingly different from the rest of the ton, enlightened, critical, she did not take anything at face's value and while she did tend to disapprove of many, many things (and never missed a chance to voice her opinion), she came alive when she was passionately explaining something close to her heart, her eyes burning with icy fire and even her hair, always everywhere, seemed to sparkle. Benedict has felt intrigued over and over. Her mind has fascinated him, however, could he be attracted to her mind? Could sheer intellect be this attractive?

"I find the way you think the most unique, Miss Granville. Your convictions are refreshingly different."

"Is that a compliment, Mr. Bridgerton?"

"Yes, I definitely meant it as such."

"Thank you. Albeit, you must not think of me as one who never has anything nice to say. Criticism tends to come easier for me than praise."

"And why do you think that is?"

"Hmm," Franny wondered, and before she could think twice about her answer, the words seemed to leave her mouth, "Maybe if I gave a glimpse into the things I feel passionate about, I would open up the chance of having my wings clipped. And then I could never fly again," she cast her eyes down, surveying her feet for she could not meet Benedict's gaze, but still felt the intensity of it.

She had no idea what came over her. She seldom bore her soul to anyone, except her uncle and aunt and usually only in the aftermath of a big fight. It was unlike her to open herself up like this. Why did Benedict make her feel like this, always at ease, safe to share her secrets with this man, who was almost a stranger? Or was he a stranger? Was connection measured in time spent together?

"Hmm, that is very wise and self-aware of you, Miss Granville. As always, your secret is safe with me and I promise not to ever discourage you when you are speaking passionately. Indeed, I believe that is one of the cruellest things to do, to clip someone's wings when they are speaking their mind." He always seemed to know the right thing to say. When Franny gathered the courage to look up, he cast her a heartfelt smile, his eyes wrinkling in the sides, dimples in the corner of his mouth and a warm sense of contentment came over her.

"Nevertheless, I would certainly miss your sarcastic remarks, so we must strike the right balance," he winked at her playfully.

"Believe me, Mr. Bridgerton, sarcasm will be the last thing that leaves me on my deathbed."

"Hmm," Benedict's eyes shifted to the left, towards a room Franny was eager to avoid. Before she could distract his attention, he turned his way and stepped in. Franny did her best not to even glance in the direction of the painting that meant the world to her, afraid that if he said anything bad about it, her world would collapse, and she could never forgive him. Benedict noticed how quiet she grew.

"Is everything all right?" his dark blue eyes scanned her curiously, with a touch of worry in his voice.

"Yes, I feel that I am reaching my wits' end."

"I am sure Miss Granville that is nearly impossible," he commented with an infectious smile on his face, kind, supportive and Franny felt her lips twitching upwards.

"How curious," he started, as his eyes shifted to the right. In effect, it was almost impossible to miss the picture as it stood out brightly, created for the very reason to attract attention.

Standing an inch away from each other, they both gazed up to an oil painting, strikingly beautiful, a rich image of a daisy meadow on a warm, summer night, just before twilight descends on the land. The sunset bursting through the trees with various crimson, orange, and yellow-coloured rays, mixed with smoky black, the sky mirroring the orange colour of the stamen of the daisies. Franny's eyes softened, as she was drawn into the warm embrace of the memories. Looking at the picture with Benedict, she felt more vulnerable than ever, as if the painting was a glimpse into her soul: teeming with colour and life, forceful, fighting a constant battle against oblivion, eager to be admired and loved. She'd rather have the picture hidden from the world so no one might inflict any danger on it. Half dreading, half expectant, she was curious of his opinion, and yet feared every unspoken word.

"How do you find this painting, Mr. Bridgerton?" she inquired, her voice slightly trembling.

"I find this painting..." he started but grew silent as he clutched one of his hands to his jaw, frowning pensively. He felt that the picture was so complex, it required deep elaboration so his comment might be worthy of it.

"The most _riveting_. I can hardly tear my eyes away from it. It stands out amongst all the other paintings, the orange is the most striking... It feels almost as if the picture was breathing, alive, wanting to be discovered, demanding to be admired. Most curious," his eyes met Franny, whose heart skipped a beat, "...Almost as if I have seen it before."

"Where?" Franny's voice was no louder than a whisper, fragile, vulnerable.

"Here," guided by a sudden and unexplainable force, he reached for Franny's hand, gently grabbing her wrist, and lifted her forearm. Their gazes locked, as navy met grey Franny shivered in expectation. Slowly, gradually, as if waiting, daring to be stopped, Benedict lifted her white forearm to his lips, placing a small kiss on her bare skin, between her glove and the hem of her sleeve. As his lips connected with the sensitive spot on her skin, Franny closed her eyes and let out a small breath. Standing in the Somerset House, in front of the painting that meant the world to her, they shared an intricate yet delicate moment. Benedict twined his long, lean fingers into Franny's, and they lowered their hands slowly, in close embrace. Not daring to meet his gaze, Franny opened her eyes and fixed them in front of her as she forgot to breathe.

"Is it your work, Miss Granville?" he inquired, also staring blankly ahead, drunk in the moment.

"No, my mother painted it," she confessed.

"She is a talented artist."

"She was, definitely."

"Miss Granville," he turned to her, gently squeezing her hand in his, "I am truly sorry."

"Most kind of you, Lord Bridgerton," Franny flashed a bleak smile and found reassurance in his presence and genuine worry. Standing there with Benedict Bridgerton was the quaintest and yet most pleasant experience. She was aware that if someone had walked in and caught them holding hands, not at all an unlikely scenario, both of their reputations would be tarnished, but for the life of her, she could not let go of his hand. Benedict was just about to say something, but before he could mutter a sound, they heard a sudden uproar coming from the other room. They immediately tore their hands away, shared a quick look and Franny hurried to the scene. Sensibly, Benedict arrived a few minutes later to avoid suspicion.

The fuss was caused by Cressida Cowper, who was known to be allergic to not being in the centre of attention. This time she was on the floor in Prince Friedrich's hands as the aftermath of what obviously was a feigned swoon. Friedrich, as most men in the room, did not seem to notice the purposiveness of her actions and did her best to fan Cressida back to life. The task was not handful as soon Cressida bet her blonde lashes, cast a demure smile at him as a sign of her humble and eternal indebtedness and let herself to be lifted. The people around them were so impressed that they, to Franny's greatest incredulity, started clapping. Eloise Bridgerton, who seemed to be the only sensible witness, pointed at Cressida, her mouth hanging open in disbelief, mirroring Franny's inner thoughts. She immediately took a liking to her. Before she could stop herself, Franny has commented, unfortunately, aloud:

"Pathetic." At once all eyes in the room turned to her: Cressida Cowper glared a thousand daggers at her, her thin eyebrows furrowed in a furious line, Prince Friedrich was obviously taken aback, Eloise's practically beamed at her and the queen's mouth and eyebrows turned upwards in an amused smile. For what felt like an eternal and extremely painful second, Franny stood there, rooted to the spots, in the crosshairs of all the looks. Somehow, she could not put her quick wits into use.

"Well, I do agree with you that the colours are rather dull, and the proportions might be slightly off, but I would not go as far as to claim that it is pathetic. Kneller, after all, was a renowned painter," a kind voice came to her rescue, and the corresponding elbow gently nudged her in the ribs as she did not get on board.

"Well, yes, maybe you are correct Mr. Bridgerton, but still the painting does not resonate with me."

"That may be, " Benedict didn't need to finish his sentence as the eyes reluctantly turned away from them and were once again fixed on Cressida who produced some other symptoms. The queen's eyes lingered on Franny just a moment longer to tell her that she was not fooled by the ingenious rescue.

✦

Benedict grabbed Franny's elbows and escorted her out of the crime scene before anyone could second guess what had just happened. She came back to her senses and shook his hands off.

"I suppose now you expect me to thank you," Franny huffed, throwing a furious look at him.

"Well, I suppose thanks are in order because I have just saved you from embarrassing yourself in front of the whole ton, _the Queen_ and _the Prince_ as well."

"Has it ever occurred to you, dear Mr. Bridgerton, that I don't need saving," she burst out, crossing her arms petulantly.

"Oh," Benedict's voice jumped an accord in frustration, "so you were just standing there, unable to utter a word, relishing the deadly glares and the painful silence?"

"I was just about to say something!" she almost yelled and a few heads turned to her. Benedict flinched.

"Do you think it is possible not to make another scene?" he was irritated at her impertinence and the lack of gratitude. And that moment she behaved like a child throwing a tantrum.

"Well, Cressida Cowper made a scene, obviously feigned one and everyone _applauded_ her for it!"

"So, you expect to be applauded for the stunt you just pulled?"

"Well, Mr. Bridgerton I thought you disapproved of the theatrics and cheap ruses enacted on the marriage mart as much as I did."

"I do, but this could not be any different. You purposefully tried to discredit Cressida Cowper. I emphasise once again, in front of _the_ _whole ton_ , the Queen and the Prince!"

Franny's mouth hung wide open. "What? Cressida takes pleasure in publicly humiliating everyone she can get her hands on. It only serves here right that for once she was at the receiving end."

"It is not your place to serve her right," Benedict commented in an even voice, finding it hard not to shake some sense into her. "What you did was reckless and rude and makes you not better than her. If I hadn't stepped in, you would have embarrassed yourself in front of everyone."

Franny felt a sudden urge to hit him, to pound her fists into his chest. But before she could yell incomprehensibly at him, he continued:

"You constantly make fun of all these women trying their best to find themselves a husband. You look down on them, judge them and take pride in your distance when you have never tried to walk a mile in their shoes. Have you ever even tried to put yourself out there, opening up to rejection?"

Franny felt the heat rising in her, her cheeks turning red in fury. The insult hit close to home and her immediate reaction was to hurt back:

"Well, that is very rich coming from you of all people, Mr. Bridgerton. Did you just not spend the better part of the day criticising artists, one of them very close to my heart, when you yourself have never lifted a brush, or even if you did, never made it to Somerset House? You might want to get down of that high, Bridgerton-horse of yours," she spat, and her vision was filled with crimson.

Benedict gasped as his pride was deeply hurt. For a second Franny could see that her insult went right into his heart and he was truly wounded, but she was so furious that she could not care less. His face rearranged into an emotionless stance, his usually smiling lips into a tight line.

"Well, at least now we know what we truly think of each other. It is also obvious that God save anyone from trying to give you a hand or advice. Good day, Miss Granville," he said, curtly.

"Good day, Mr. Bridgerton, " she snapped back in the same unaffectionate tone. For a moment they glared daggers at each other, then Benedict turned tails and left without another word. This time none of them turned back.


	9. Resentment

_Dearest, Gentle Reader, it seems that we have all been deviously fooled, for all along our eyes were on the wrong (nonetheless most charming) Bridgerton! The gathering at Somerset House has provided us with the greatest surprise. The infamous, spunky Frances Granville and the most mysterious Bridgerton, Benedict, were seen criticising pictures together (for which the Author cannot blame them) and giggling so infectiously that the warm ambience could hardly escape anyone's attention. The two certainly complement each other, as probably the first time ever Miss Granville could not deliver an insult, but Mr. Bridgerton came willingly and brilliantly to her rescue. Some say they were seen in a heated argument thereafter, but we do know that one cannot argue passionately with someone for whom one has no feelings._

_Lady Whistledown_

✦

Franny was lying on her bed, her long limbs thrown to the sides, the upper two smeared with various layers of paint, her wayward hair all over the place, forgotten how it felt to be combed, altogether giving her a look as if she had just been to war. Letting out an indignant grunt, she slid down to the floor and threw her head backwards. In the bottom of her fireplace were remnants of the latest Whistledown issue which she burnt the day before with great pleasure. Her room was filled with canvases, some even had brushes poked through them, but all were finished. Painting offered the only relief to her racing mind. However, she had run out of both surfaces to paint on and material to paint with, but she would not for the world ask for more because that would require an apology, something she was definitely not ready to give. Therefore, nothing was left to do but sulk. She was furious. Absolutely, utterly and gut-wrenchingly furious. Or no, maybe it was not anger she felt, but hurt, and there was a world of difference between the two feelings. Her anger was like a summer storm, came out of the blue, covered everything in its way, but was gone as quickly as it started. But hurt, she stored hurt, deep down in her guts; it was constantly eating her away, turning and churning, until its hunger was satisfied by lashing back, by inflicting damage. And Benedict found her weakest point: her fear of not being good enough. Of not being beautiful, kind, or good enough to be loved and appreciated. Her fear of not meeting the standards set by society and lifted to an almost unattainable height by her. How could she yearn and detest fitting in so deeply at the same time? But that all didn't matter because he has hurt her. He listened carefully, promised to keep her secret, offering companionship and discretion only to turn them against her. Franny rarely shared her fears and inner thoughts with anyone, and just when finally got herself to, her trust was shattered to dozens of pieces. She has learnt the hard way not to let anyone close, by being put down again and again, so she chose isolation instead of possible pain. And that has worked fine, up until the point _he_ had come around, and of course, he _had to_ notice the picture and then go boldly ahead and place the smallest of kisses on her forearm that sent shivers across her spine. But that was it, she promised to herself, she would never let herself be vulnerable again.

✦

On the warm, summer night Benedict was sitting on the swing, a keepsake of many childhood memories, smoking a cigarette, the keepsake of many adult memories, gently rocking forward and back, anchoring himself with his boots  
On the warm, summer night Benedict was sitting on the swing, a keepsake of many childhood memories, smoking a cigarette, the keepsake of many adult memories, gently rocking forward and back, anchoring himself with his boots. Fortunately, he was alone, as Eloise had probably sneaked out to the Featherington house. As much as he loved his sister, and he really did, dearly, her company was the least he desired at the moment. He sat in the dark, inhaling the smoke of the cigarette deeply, thinking about afternoon last. He was clearly frustrated, but while his frustration usually quickly went away, this time it was creeping up on him, nagging him on the shoulder. He could not get Frances Granville out of his head. She had a blatant disregard for social rules and customs, she was outspoken, headstrong, and rash, but that shouldn't have surprised him, after all, she has established all of those qualities upon her debut and consistently continued to do so. But this time was somehow different, as she stood there, tongue-tied and wide-eyed, unable to mutter a sound, Benedict instinctively rushed to help her because... _Why?_ he pondered. Because he wanted to avoid further embarrassment? Because it hurt him to see her like that? Because he felt responsible? Why would he feel responsible when he barely knew her? Yes, it was true that he was constantly intrigued by her rough beauty and sharp intelligence and her skin did feel divine on his lips, but nothing more has happened between the two of them. Was connection measured in moments spent together? And then there was her petulant, childish and completely rude response to his help, her reaction was almost sullen and that snapped something in him. At that moment she saw her ungrateful and thoughtless, the complete opposite of how vulnerable and honest she was just moments before, standing in front of the painting, and sharing her insecurities... _Fuck_ Benedict said out loud, exhaling the smoke out, as it finally hit him. He had just promised, merely minutes earlier that he would never abuse her trust and then he went ahead and walked right into her pride and fear and accused her of being afraid of rejection. He was a complete, utter asshole. He decided that he needed to make it right.

✦

Silence sat on the Granville house, frustrated, awkward and the kind that could be ignored but still remained in the back of one's mind. Usually, the Granvilles were endlessly patient, after all, they both had their fair share of wicked and illicit activities, but this time their patience was finally tried. The carriage ride home was spent in suspenseful silence, Franny avoided her aunt's scornful and even worse, her uncle's disappointed gaze by glaring out of the window. Had Mr. Granville not been cross with his niece, he would have found it amusing how her hair seemed to sparkle in frustration. Mrs. Granville was ready to give a piece of her mind to her niece, but she knew very well that as long as she was sulking there was no chance for a real conversation just for a shouting match and she was adult enough not to engage in the latter. Therefore, as soon as they arrived home, Franny retreated to her room and stayed there throughout the following day. Packages of food were sent up, after all the Granvilles were civilised, but no new art supplies, which, the Granvilles knew very well, was soon to lure her out. But before their plan could be fulfilled, Lord Wetherby appeared to invite Franny to promenade, giving her a chance to avoid unwanted conversations.

Franny and Lord Wetherby were walking at the ton's favourite promenade spot, next to the lake with glistening clear water, perfectly curated lawn and picnic stations springing up like mushrooms. Franny loved to take long walks, breathe the fresh air, enjoy the summer, which was forbidden for young ladies as tanned skin was highly unfashionable. So naturally, when she got her chance, she made the most of it. Annabeth has patched her up enough to be presentable and she was grateful that she even managed to tame her hair into what almost looked like a decent French braid. Lucy Granville was following them from a few steps behind with an immaculate smile on her face; contrary to her niece, she was in full control of her facial expressions. Lord Wetherby was silently walking next to her, but Franny was so occupied with her own unpleasant thoughts that she did not notice how disconcerted he looked and the tense pace he adopted.

The Duke and Daphne Bridgerton crossed their path and greetings were exchanged. Franny glanced back at them behind her shoulder to note how smitten they were with each other. Poor Friedrich, whose eyes followed Daphne eagerly around, stood no chance. Next to him, however, Cressida Cooper met her eyes and Franny knew that if Cressida got her pretty, white hands on her, it would mean a very long and painful death of her. Franny thought that Cressida would better focus her attention and energy on the prince, who was sure to be scared out of his wits if he turned around and saw her sneer.

"I have something I would like to discuss with you, Miss Granville," Lord Wetherby cleared his throat somehow awkwardly and tore Franny's gaze away from Cressida, who continued to glare daggers at her long after she was gone.

"I am listening, Lord Wetherby."

"Now that we have made better acquaintances, I wish to give a proficient answer to the question you have once posed to me," he explained, but without his usually easy-going countenance.

"I have posed a great number of questions to you, my lord, but I presume you are referring to our conversation about the rather mysterious topic of marriage?"

"Precisely. And I wish to speak freely to you, if you allowed me, my lady."

"Of course, Lord Wetherby."

"After spending various afternoons in your drawing room and accompanying you to balls, I came to a realisation. So to say, I have learnt first-hand how proficient you are in scaring suitors away."

"Oh well, a lady should not boast of her accomplishments, but let certain rumourmongers do the job for her," Franny teased, but as her partner's face did not reveal a smirk, she knew that she should take the conversation seriously.

"But before I could answer your question, I must ask one myself," he said, ignoring her joke.

"Yes?" she asked cautiously, scanning his face.

"Is there anything between you and Mr. Bridgerton?"

"Lord Wetherby, I assure you, the courting between me and Colin is only a ruse, not a very entertaining one, though."

"I know that Miss Granville," he replied with a flat smile, "but I meant Benedict Bridgerton."

Franny was so taken aback that she froze in her spot. Rearranging her face into a furious look, she stomped on.

"No, there is absolutely nothing between me and Benedict Bridgerton. He is a hypocrite, conceited and untrustworthy and I shall have nothing to do with him ever again," she spat, her nostrils flaring, offended by the suggestion that something other than resentment was between her and Benedict Bridgerton.

Lord Wetherby either did not notice that something was amiss or decided to turn a blind eye to it. He gave her a few minutes to calm down as they walked up to the bridge. He stopped, surveyed their surroundings carefully and when he made sure they were alone, he started.

"You are the first and last I share this with, Miss Granville," he took a deep breath as if he was about to chicken out, "The reason why I am not fond of the idea of marriage, is because I am in love with someone I cannot marry."

Franny gasped and she had thousands of questions to ask. However, a strange sense of maturity came over her as she decided to take Wetherby's word for it, for he looked very pained and she did not want to push him further.

"And yet, I am forced to court young ladies, attend balls, play nice with matchmaking mamas and live the life of an eligible bachelor which is excruciatingly painful for me, the most vain and unfair to young ladies."

Unsure what to say to ease his pain, Franny looked up to his chocolate brown eyes and instinctively reached out to squeeze his hand, "I am truly sorry Lord Wetherby."

"Thank you, Miss Granville. Albeit, I am of the understanding that you do not wish to find yourself a husband. I do not wish to find myself a wife, therefore I thought perhaps we could come to an agreement."

"What kind of agreement are you proposing, Lord Wetherby?"

"A marriage proposal, so to say. If we were to wed, you could lead the life you have always desired, free of containment, free to pursue your art, or whatever your heart desires. Of course, I would provide for you, and we could share a life if you wish so, but I would not expect you to bear children to me. In exchange, I would be free of ambitious mamas and all the courting."

Franny couldn't mutter a word as her mind went blank.

"I do believe that both of us have much to benefit from this arrangement," Lord Wetherby continued, relieved to have made the proposal, "Nevertheless, I understand that it is a serious commitment to undertake and I would not like to rush you into something you do not desire."

"Yes, Lord Wetherby. I shall like some time to think about it."

"That is all I ask, my lady. Shall I accompany you back to your carriage?"

They walked back in silence, Franny's legs took her there automatically, but she barely percepted what was happening around her. She felt her mouth saying goodbye to Lord Wetherby, but her mind was miles away. As soon as they sat in the carriage, Franny gazed out of the window in the hope that counting the carriages passing them would somehow take her mind off the panic that was building in her. She knew she should be happy, after all, she has secured a proposal that would resolve all her problems: a union with a perfectly decent gentleman, who did not ask anything, but her discretion. And yet, she couldn't help to wonder that after all the fuss, whether an arranged marriage was what she really wanted. Whether a small part of her, no matter how deep she tried to bury it, did yearn for love.

"Franny," she jumped when her aunt put her hand on her knee, her dark brown eyes glittering with motherly worry. "Tell me what is wrong."

She held herself one minute longer before she confessing in a trembling voice:

"Lord Wetherby has asked for my hand in marriage."


	10. Affairs of the Heart

"It's okay dearest, but first please take a deep breath. You are turning either blue or green, but surely nothing resembling your natural colour."

"You know Auntie, I am really not in the mood for jokes," she growled but also realised that she had been holding her breath, so inhaled deeply.

“Great, now talk to me, what are you feeling?” she inquired, eyes fixed on her niece.

"I," Franny started but trailed off as it was hard to put into words the inarticulate screaming rampaging in her head. "I don't know whether I reject the idea of marriage because I am told that it is all I can and must have, or because I truly do not wish to marry."

"Hmm," Lucy nodded with an understanding glint in her eyes. "You might believe that you are alone in the world with this dilemma, but let me tell you, you are not. Countless people do not necessarily wish to marry for several reasons. Perhaps, you are not yet ready, or you are simply not interested in men, maybe you do not want to settle for one person, or it is equally likely that you are afraid of what the marital act entails. We will find the time to talk about that, but not now."

Franny’s head snapped up. If she was sure in one thing, it was that one man would be more than enough in her life. Also, she wasn’t entirely clear on the baby business.

" _Will_ we find the time, Aunty?"

"Of course. How could you have autonomy over your body and choices if you don't know how it works?" she replied in an earnest, determined voice. "Albeit, I reckon that Lord Wetherby offered you a mutually beneficial agreement rather than a genuine marriage proposal, did he not?”

"He did," she muttered and was too distracted to question how her aunt came to that conclusion, "I would be free to pursue my art, he would be free of courting and we could share a life if we wanted to, but no children. It all sounds reasonable, but I, I…"

"Franny," Mrs. Granville grabbed her by the shoulder, partly to get her attention and partly because she has been shaking like a leaf, "It's okay. We will go home and talk it through with Henry. Has there been any obstacle the three of us has not managed to overcome?"

Franny wrinkled her forehead, “Well, there was that one time when I almost burnt the whole,”

“We do not talk about that,” she snapped in a playful tone and Franny finally chuckled.

✦

"Go on, tell Henry, I will make tea," Mrs. Granville gently pushed her niece forward and slipped out.

Franny sat down on the arm of the sofa and surveyed her uncle for a few minutes in silence. She noted to herself how he frowned in concentration, also a habit of hers as she has been told, and how his hands alternated between light and strong strokes. She noticed the spot of charcoal on his jaw which he had probably stroke unconsciously. Watching him sketch has calmed her nerves down to a point where she could say in a steady voice, "Lord Wetherby has made me a marriage proposal.”

The charcoal stick stopped abruptly in his hand as heavy silence fell between them. Mr. Granville's chest rose slightly; he knew that he could no longer bide his time and the moment came to be honest with his niece. Without saying a word, he poured some whiskey to himself and offered a glass to Franny as well. He sat down and signalled to his niece to do the same so they would be on the same eye level. Puckering her brows, she reluctantly accepted the glass and hopped on the sofa, knowing that some grandiose secret was about to be unfolded.

“Lord Wetherby and I are in love," he declared in the same tone Franny introduced the news of the marriage proposal, and the statement hung heavily in the air. Franny's jaw fell, but before she could decide about her next step, he continued.

“I have kept this secret from you because I did not want to burden you with the truth. Lord Wetherby and I live in the shadows, stealing fleeting moments of happiness, dreading to be discovered, and yet unable to be apart. It pains me, every minute of the day, to be in love with someone I cannot even exchange a glance with in public. I am truly sorry for putting this on you, but it is time you knew the truth."

Taken aback, Franny needed a moment to compose herself. Myriads of questions ran through her mind and she didn't even know where to begin. She has never heard about a man loving another before, not least a married one. Albeit, the only thing she truly understood about love was that there was very little to be understood and almost everything to be felt, something that wasn't exactly her strongest point. But there were some pressing issues to be addressed.

Mr. Granville sat in silence, sipping his drink quietly, surveying his niece closely.

"What about Lucy?" she blurted out, using the given name of her aunt as if some clarification was needed about her identity, a grey storm brewing in her eyes.

Henry Granville took a deep breath before he answered, and carefully started, "Lucy knows, she has known all along, in fact. Our marriage is based on an agreement and the secrets we both keep of and for each other. Mine is Lord Wetherby, hers is… hers is hers to tell, but let us say that she enjoys the protection of being a married lady, as well as the freedoms of having a husband who does not question where she spends her nights.”

Franny's brows furrowed in question.

"Does this _agreement_ include Lord Weaver?”

Mr. Granville smiled sourly, having been reminded of how perceptive her niece was.

“Possibly, but I do not know for sure.”

“So,” she started, fiddling with the hem of her dress, biting her lower lip, “You do not love her.”

“I do love her, dearly,” Mr. Granville moved closer and took her hand in his, neither of them bothered in the least by the charcoal. "I love your Aunt, Franny, with all my heart. She is my very best friend in this world, we share a life, and nobody knows me as she does. I am, however, not _in love with her_ , so to say. Sometimes the difference doesn't matter, but in this case, it does, gravely. I assure you our union is happier than most marriages. It is based on respect, trust, and understanding, the very foundations of love."

Franny didn't say a word, just lifted the glass to her lips and gulped the whisky down in one go, a grimace spreading on her face. Henry Granville shivered slightly but giving alcohol to her was probably the least damage he has caused at that moment. When Franny looked up, her gaze met her uncle's and he saw him bearing his heart, waiting for her judgement, dreading her answer. It reminded her of the night of the Vauxhall celebration, how distant his expression was and pained her deeply to see him in that state.

"I hope that you will find it in your heart to understand my situation. If not, of course, we will make arrangements so you can live comfortably elsewhere," he said in a faint voice, and even the thought ailed him.

“Nonsense, Uncle,” she squeezed his hand gently and met his eyes. "I have struggled to fathom or experience the slightest of attraction. If I speak freely, I am frightened by the mere possibility of not being able to fall in love. So, if I am not given a chance myself, I cheer for anyone who had been. I believe that love between two adults who deeply care about each other should be cherished, no matter the form.”

Mr. Granville felt as if a thousand pounds had been lifted off his shoulders: He kissed his niece’s hands and heaved a sigh of relief, "Thank you, Franny, your understanding means the world to me."

He drew his niece in a close embrace, and she eased into it. Placing a small kiss on her forehead, and gently stroke her hair as she buried her face in his chest, listening to the rhythmic pounding of his heart. She still had a million questions to ask, but for the moment, she felt at peace in his embrace.

“So, is this the reason why you refuse marriage?" he inquired after a few minutes had passed. "Fear?”

Franny slipped out from his embrace, and sat back crossed-legged, folding her arms. Mr. Granville recognised the defensive gesture.

“Franny dearest, it is natural to be afraid of the unknown, to be afraid of being vulnerable. But just because you have yet to find someone you can share your feelings with, it doesn't mean that you never will. To be in love requires an open heart, and once your heart is open, you are very likely to get hurt. Albeit, we cannot keep our hearts to ourselves, can we? How would we grow otherwise?"

"But," she bit her lower lip and stared out of the window blankly. "I do wonder whether love is about growth. I look at people who are enamoured with each other, I listen to the conversations of young debutantes at the modiste, and all I see is people desperately trying to please the other and completely forgetting who they were before as if they have lost all sense of logic and rationality. They engage in the most insane stunts to get the attention of their significant other. I don't want that."

Henry Granville smiled all-knowingly. "Of course, love has that irrational side you have just promptly described. When one person can make your day, even your week with one small smile, and sadden you with one word. It is wild, unpredictable and you can easily get hurt. You are right. But love also encourages us to be our best self, to be a better person. It gives us the support to take new steps, and a safety net if we were to fall."

"But," she shifted in her seat uncomfortably, "That means dependence on someone else, whose whims can break your heart in any minute. I have spent the better part of my life working on myself so I would be strong, free and independent. So I would not have to rely on anyone's charity or help. I do not need to be saved!" Tears started dropping on her cheeks, the mix of fury, desperation and sadness stirring in her.

"Franny," his uncle grabbed her hand again, and gently lifted his chin so their eyes would meet. "It is possible to be independent and vulnerable at the same time. It is possible to be yourself and constantly try to do better for someone. And, most importantly, not needing to be saved, and accepting help when in need, especially if kindly given, does not cancel each other out."

When she looked up, he offered her a handkerchief and letting her a few minutes to collect herself, he filled the glasses again. She took the drink absent-minded.

“Albeit, Uncle, I cannot help but wonder, if I accepted Lord Wetherby’s offer, you would have a chance to be with the one you love. We would be a family; therefore no one would question his presence here.”

"Nonsense, my dear," it was Henry's turn to reassure his niece. He wiped a tear on her cheek. “My problems are mine only. You should not sacrifice your chance of finding love for me. I would never ask such a thing of you. And I am sure that William never would have proposed to you if he knew how you really felt.”

Franny frowned slightly but quickly deducted that William probably referred to Lord Wetherby, whose given name up until that point was a mystery to her. She supposed she would have found it out at the wedding, by the latest. She also knew that it must have been written somewhere in the Book of the Swoon that one should not marry a gentleman whose given name one has no clue about.

"Albeit, let us make an arrangement by ourselves.”

“Haven’t there been too many arrangements already, Uncle dearest?”

He waved with the glass in his hand, the whisky stirred by his sudden motion, "You will make a genuine attempt at finding someone you can imagine a future with. It includes courting, and not sharing horrid tales with your potential suitors. And if by the end of the season you are still inclined to believe that marriage is not for you, I will speak with your father on your behalf so you can stay with us, and be a spinster, let alone a painter, as long as you wish so."

“That arrangement doesn’t sound entirely unbecoming.”

"And," he went on, throwing a glance at her over the rim of the glass, "If you were to find that special someone to be a certain Bridgerton with a great eye for painting, I wouldn't mind it at all."

Franny choked on the drink and let out a grunt that made Henry Granville chuckle.

"Uncle, Benedict and I are worlds apart from that. We did share a moment, but then Cressida fainted, and I could not help but… there's no need to repeat how the events unfolded. We had a row, and the whole thing just spiralled out of control."

“So?”

“So what?”

Henry Granville crackled again, and decided not to take the moment to lecture her niece on manners, "What are _you_ going to do about it?"

"Well," she pondered, fiddling with her hair. "I believe apologies are in order."

“So, you will apologise to him and thank him for his help, won’t you, Frances,” he asked in a playfully scolding tone.

"Yes," she threw herself back in her seat, collapsing against the sofa. "But I will sulk before I do."

Henry Granville nodded in approval. “And I shall also speak with Lord Wetherby and settle this matter between the two of you. But I,” he took a sip from his whisky, "will also sulk before I do."

He assumed the same position and grin, the whiskey finally starting to take effect.

✦

“I hope there is one more place for sulking,” the angelic voice of Lucy Granville inquired, as she appeared out of the blue. Getting the affirmative answer, she helped herself with some whiskey and squeezed between her niece and husband. Franny placed her head on her shoulder, and Henry reached out for her hand, placing a gentle kiss on her hand. They shared their warm characteristic look, explaining to each other without words that everything was all right.

"I see that tea has somehow turned into a stronger beverage," Franny pointed out in a voice asking for trouble.

"That tends to happen when it comes to discussing the ever so complicated affairs of the heart," came Mr. Granville's answer.

"Or when I leave you two alone," jumped in Mrs. Granville.

"Now that is simply not true, Auntie!" Franny exclaimed. "Do you think we can skip the next ball and just stay in, maybe read something?"

"I believe that is a lovely idea, Franny," Mrs. Granville concurred, stroking her niece's hair gently. Franny knew that no amount of stroking would chasten her hair, but still, the gesture felt nice.

"I concur. We should light the fireplace and read something," Henry added.

“Excellent, I shall grab my book,” but before Franny could jump up, Lucy stopped her.

"No Franny, I am not in the mood for Machiavelli. This is my time to choose, so give me the Byron volume."

"I do hope that we don't miss anything exciting unfolding today, though," Franny grimaced as she was looking for the book which was right in front of her eyes, but none of the Granvilles felt the need to mention it.

“Well, we will surely get the news fresh and crisp from Lady Whistledown,” muttered Henry Granville.

“That is only if Franny does not burn the paper before we have a chance to read it,” Lucy Granville commented slyly, exchanging a look with her husband.

Franny's hand stopped in mid-air, wondering how on earth did they know about the fate of the last Whistledown issue. They must have had a spy in the house, and her best bet was on Everly.


	11. War of Flowers

"Good morning dearest. That letter was sent to you," Mr. Granville greeted Franny over the newspaper spread in his lap while smoking his favourite cigar.

"Hmm," Franny walked in, curiously. As she opened the letter, she was surprised to find a few, small daisy flowers falling out of it. She turned her attention to the writing but having just finished her latest painting, a portrait of the queen with spaghetti bolognese on her head, the water droplets smeared the lower part of the paper. Cursing to herself, which the Granvilles graciously ignored, she read the inscription:

_To Miss Granville, in the hope that she would accept my apology and find this flower to her liking. ******* ****gerton_

A lot could be deducted from one's handwriting and Franny, who took correspondence seriously, took a moment to examine the card closely: the penmanship was neat, cursive and elegant, its owner probably boasted of a healthy amount of confidence and filled out dozens of cards each day, sending them to young ladies in the company of flowers. And, of course, it was the same as on the last note, not to mention that the "gerton" was visible, therefore Franny easily figured the mysterious sender to be Colin Bridgerton. Obviously, he was apologising for the bouquet of red roses which (in)famously flew out of the window and decided to adopt more subtle tactics. Indeed, it would even have been to Franny's liking to receive daisies had they been sent by anyone but Colin Bridgerton. Before she could start plotting her masterful revenge, the newest edition of the Lady Whistledown's Society Papers was delivered.

"Oh dear, we appear to have missed the biggest scandal of the season," Lucy Granville exclaimed while noting to herself that Franny has finally secured a worthy suitor who somehow has managed to figure out her favourite flower. Enjoying the anticipation, Lucy posed a little before revealing the secret.

"Daphne Bridgerton, praised once again to be the Season's Incomparable, has traded the Duke up for Prince Friedrich," she delivered the juicy news, her voice laced with surprise.

"Most astounding. I was dead certain that they would make it down the aisle," Franny commented, rolling one of the daisies between her fingers.

I was dead certain that they would make it down the aisle," Franny commented, rolling one of the daisies between her fingers.

"Well, it certainly does not bode well for the Duke," Mr. Granville murmured, surrounded by a mysterious cloud of smoke.

"Albeit, not at all unreasonable. I imagine if you are a princess and your prince truly listens to you, and Friedrich seems like the type who does, you can have a real impact on the state of affairs. I would _die_ for that kind of influence."

"A little bit less death on this fine morning would be appreciated, Franny dearest," Mr. Granville remarked, handing the newspaper to her niece as he knew she was eager to read it.

"Be that as it may," Mrs. Granville added, "Do not forget the social duties of a princess, all the balls you would need to host and all the guests you would need to entertain. With impeccable manners and a _genuine_ smile."

"On second thought being a princess doesn't sound that much fun at all," she admitted, turning to the foreign news section.

"And balance has been restored," commented Mr. Granville.

✦

"Mr. Bridgerton," Humboldt said, shifting somehow uncomfortably. "A... _gift_ has arrived for you."

"A gift? Why then, dearest Humboldt, do you look so grim?" Colin cast an amused smile at the butler.

"You'll find it in the waiting room," he commented without an expression on his face and took his leave.

Colin walked into the drawing room, his eyes scanning the place curiously and soon falling on a bouquet of unidentifiable flowers. At first, he believed it to be intended for Daphne, but bouquets never came in singles therefore he approached. He turned the card to reveal neat, small handwriting:

_To Colin Bridgerton, in the hope that he keeps his apologies and flowers to himself. This bouquet may stand as proof of my feelings towards him. With warm regards, Frances Granville_

The bouquet was rather impressive with small, round, vibrant yellow flowers and at first glance nothing was amiss. Colin grabbed it and instinctively drew it close to his nose to take a sniff, instantly regretting his hasty move. The flowers, whatever type they were, smelled horrible, for the lack of a better word, and he was not going to apologise for his thoughts, they smelled as if someone pissed on them. He let out a warm, heartfelt laugh.

"What is it?" Descending the stairs Anthony Bridgerton caught his brother's laugh, and always suspicious of merriment, he decided to investigate. "Is that a bouquet for Daphne?"

"No, brother, these flowers were sent to me," Colin replied, still laughing.

"Flowers sent to a _man_?" Anthony raised his sharp eyebrows in a confused, disapproving manner, "Who would do such a thing?"

"Miss Granville is expressing her feelings towards me."

"Outrageous. Do remove them in this instant, I do not want any flowers near me, they attract bees."

"I can assure you, brother, this will certainly not attract bees. Or any living creatures with a sense of smell for that matter."

"How do you mean?" Colin shoved the bouquet in his face and took pleasure in his disgust.

"Get them out of my face!" he roared, snapping the flowers away. "It is flagrant enough to be sending flowers to a man, not to mention pissed-smelling ones. That chit is out of control."

"I find it rather ingenious," Colin grinned. He did not remember apologising though, was this some sort of passive-aggressive way of signalling that he should? Blimey, whoever understood the workings of female brains...

✦

Since Lucy has decided to pay a visit to the Milliner's shop to acquire a new hat in the latest fashion, and Franny was eagerly plotting some sort of revenge, God help the one against whom, Mr. Granville had decided to spend his afternoon in the club. So, there he was, smoking his favourite cigar, rather wickedly eavesdropping at how Lord Featherington once again managed to misplace a bet. Or overhearing was a more precise expression, as the room echoed the latest Featherington misfortune. Henry, contrary to his wide, did not find any pleasure in gambling as he had more than enough risks in his life. His eyes caught a familiar figure and he decided to have some amusement.

"What do you think, Bridgerton?" he asked nonchalantly, getting the addressed caught in surprise, pointing to a picture he has always found hideous, "This one more to your liking?"

"Mr. Granville," Benedict jumped quickly up, his intonation signalling that he had more to say, but Henry cut him off.

"Perhaps they should take it over to Somerset House, so it can be skyed right next to mine," he suggested ironically, cocking his head slightly in a teasing manner. After all, he deserved some fun.

"I believe I owe you an apology, sir," Benedict pleaded with genuine regret in his voice.

"Unnecessary," he replied with a small smile, lowering his voice, "I actually quite enjoy the eloquent stings of your critique."

Benedict frowned, his uncomfortable expression showing that he was not entirely convinced.

"So?"

"A touch morose for my tastes."

Henry hummed and grimaced, moving on to the next piece.

"A tragedy. The hound deserved better," Benedict delivered his next witty sting of critique, easing more into the conversation. Henry laughed out loud.

"Where is yours?"

"My," Benedict inquired, confused.

"Your work."

From his sheepish expression, Mr. Granville quickly drew his conclusion with a touch of surprise, "Are you to tell me that you are not an artist yourself?"

"Well," the younger man started stuttering, surveying the floor, "I suppose I sometimes like to... err well I mean, I almost..." Benedict brushed his hands across his nose awkwardly.

Henry, always a good soul, jumped to save him from further embarrassment, "I believe _yes_ and _thank you_ are the words you seek." His niece was oftentimes short on those words too.

"But either way, you should come by my studio," Henry handed his card to Benedict and took his chance to deliver one last punchline, "The pieces I do for myself are there, and I think you'll find my real work far less.. um, Oh how did you put it? _Cold and lacking inner life_?"

Benedict nodded, frowning both his brows and eyes, accepting his defeat, "Mm. I shall never live that down, shall I?"

I shall never live that down, shall I?"  
"Mr. Granville," Benedict asked, cap in hand, "Why are you being so kind to me?"

Henry stopped to think for a second about his reasons, then answered honestly, "We all deserve a little kindness, don't we? Albeit, accidentally, I happen to have a person very close to my heart who constantly gets herself into trouble, and sometimes needs a little help getting out of it. And you were there Mr. Bridgerton, offering your help kindly."

Benedict smiled understandingly, turning his card over in his hands.

"And," after a moment of pondering, he turned back to him. "It might not be my place, but... I don't know what has unfolded between the two of you. Knowing my niece's temper, I can easily imagine that she has lashed out at you for offering your help. But when she comes to her senses, and I truly hope she will, she will apologise. But for the time being, I wanted to tell you that some people don't know how to accept help, not because they are too proud or plain to do so, but because they are rarely offered any. And if given, they are dreadfully afraid of the hidden agenda. Hmpf, but I have said too much. Good day to you, Mr. Bridgerton, I hope to see you soon at my studio."

Benedict stood there, biting his lower lip, wondering what to do next.

✦

If Franny wasn't a bundle of nerves, she probably would have remarked how bizarre she found Lady Trowbridge's soirée which boasted of the most quaint forms of entertainment including men throwing sticks on fire, women spinning around in hula hoops and stretching their body in inhumane angles, not to mention musicians resembling sad clowns. But she was too busy walking on pins and needles and scanning the room expectantly, so she left the witty remarks to Lady Whistledown.

"Frances Granville," Lady Danbury's voice cut through the murmur of the crowd like a cold knife.

"Lady Danbury," Franny bobbed a small curtsy, "it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. How may I assist you?"

"Assist me, I doubt you can. With amusement, however, you can certainly serve me." Lady Danbury walked beside her. "Now, I have been following your rather unruly adventures through the scandal sheet. I might say that you have quite a talent in causing a storm among London's high society."

"That is the highest praise I could receive, especially coming from you," Glancing down, Franny noticed Lady D.'s walking stick at the hem of her dress, physically preventing her from running away. She was sure that the sly fox Lady D. was, it was not an accident.

"Cocky," the elder lady smirked at her, one of her perfectly plucked eyebrows raising. "I would like to invite you over for some tea, I have a matter that might require your assistance."

"Of course, Lady Danbury, I would be delighted!" she responded with a feeble smile. As her eyes settled on a familiar figure, her stomach did a somersault.

"And I shall reciprocate your help in advance."

"How do you mean?" she tore her gaze away to look at Lady D. confusedly.

"Mr. Bridgerton! "she yelled, gesturing to Benedict, commanding him to come closer. Franny's jaw fell, but she quickly composed herself.

"Now dear, you might fool the ton and this meddlesome Lady Whistledown, but I am much too old and much too smart not to have caught notice of the longing glances you stole," she whispered to her with an all-knowing smile.

"Yes, Lady Danbury, how may I help you?" Benedict walked up to them with a kind, but hesitant smile which could not help but grow more genuine as his gaze shifted to Franny.

"Everyone seems to believe I require help! This young lady was telling me that she would like to dance but none of the gentlemen had dared to ask her. I do not believe you to be a coward, Mr. Bridgerton," Lady Danbury, the uncelebrated matchmaker of the season, cast a satisfied look then left, leaving the pair, eyeing each other in anticipation, to decide which one of them would take the first step.


	12. Will You Let Me Lead

"I might not be a coward, but I am also no fool," Benedict broke the silence while helping both of them to some champagne.

"Certainly not, why would you imply that?" Franny inquired, taking a little sip from the drink hoping that it would give her courage.

"If I am not mistaken, you have already turned down my offer to dance on no less than two occasions. It would certainly hurt my pride if you finally danced with me because Lady Danbury has ordered us," he said with a what Franny labelled a Bridgerton-smile: a smile of a man very aware and making use of his charms.

"Well, nobody would dare say no to Lady Danbury."

Benedict chuckled and offered his hand gallantly, locking Franny's eyes. She lifted her arm only to stop in mid-air.

"But there are some pressing matters to be discussed first."

Benedict grinned, taking a big gulp from his champagne. Frances Granville was certainly playing hard to get probably without even realising.

"Dancing and talking are very much compatible."

"For me, they are not."

"Very well," he extended his arms questioningly, "What do you wish to discuss, Miss Granville?"

She took another sip of champagne and a deep breath, fortunately not at the same time.

"I believe apologies are in order, after what happened in Somerset House."

Benedict inspected her expectantly, not giving her the release of either apologising first or interceding. After all, two could play the game.

Franny expected him to jump at the chance to settle the matter between them, but judging by the mischievous glint in his eyes, he certainly was not going to. Very well, she wasn't a coward either.

"I am sorry, Mr. Bridgerton. You did come to my rescue, that was very kind of you. I apologise for reacting in a bad manner. And you were right about Cressida as well, it was cruel for me to criticise her," she blurted in one breath before she could chicken out.

Benedict nodded deeply, "Thank you, Miss Granville, I appreciate it. And, of course, I was at fault also. It was beyond cruel of me to abuse your trust and it certainly was not my place to criticise you. I must apologise to you as well."

Franny nodded the same way and silence fell on them. It was one of those quiet, content moments which neither of them felt compelled to break. Finally, Franny offered her hand.

"I shall very much like to dance with you, Mr. Bridgerton. Would you do me the honour?"

Benedict has never been asked to dance before, neither did he not know of any male acquaintances who have been, but he appreciated her boldness. He slipped his hand into hers before she could change her mind.

As they walked to the dance floor curious gazes and murmurs accompanied them. Benedict has long learnt not to care about the musings of the ton but Franny shifted uncomfortably, Bridgertons always attracted unwanted attention. They took their place and arranged into the starting position of the waltz. Franny had to lift her head to meet his eyes and finally noticed his prominent height; he was easily the tallest man in the room, and that was very much to her liking. Her heart was in her throat as they waited for the music to start and she felt his gaze on her. When they started the dance, however, their movement was far away from any kind of unison: they cancelled each other out, both battling to take the lead. Franny was always trying to anticipate the next move and Benedict did his best take it over from her while also preventing them from tripping over. A few heads were turning towards them and Franny grew more nervous by each second, trodding on Benedict's foot for the fifth time.

"Miss Granville," he muttered quietly, with an impeccably polite smile, "You would make both of our jobs easier, not to mention much painless if you had let me lead."

A furious gaze crossed Franny's face, making Benedict chuckle lightly.

"I am not asking for your hand in marriage. Let me lead, just for the duration of this one dance, and then you can go back to managing everything and everyone in your life and I will _happily_ fall in line."

Franny's eyes narrowed in suspicion; it was silly but letting him lead just for this very dance seemed to be on par with a marriage proposal. She was reluctant to give in as she was dreadfully afraid of disappointment, or worse, what if she found the dance to her liking...

"You know," he said, reading the thoughts written on her face, "dancing is one of those things that you cannot execute by thinking and planning. You have to let your body take over."

"No wonder I have never been very good at dancing."

"That may be, but if you let me, I will teach you how. Simply because I am more experienced and not because I am a man, of course," he commented, grinning from ear to ear. Franny was impressed and pissed at the same time how cleverly he has figured her out. Benedict cocked his head slightly to the side, waiting for her with a kind, reassuring smile. She finally nodded curtly.

The moment Franny gave her permission, Benedict drew her closer, knocking the breath out of her. Except for Lord Wetherby, this was her first time to be dancing with a man, not a relative of hers or a dance teacher. The closeness seemed awkward and yet natural.

When dancing with Lord Wetherby Franny was actively aware of each step she took, each mistake she made, but with Benedict, it almost felt like she was weightless. He assumed control of her body and led her through the dance, spinning her around the ballroom with the ease of an experienced dancer, while their eyes never lost sight of each other. As their bodies were locked in a close embrace Franny caught herself holding her breath. She could feel the muscles under his tuxedo and she was aware of his hands in her hand and on her hips. Her skin burned under his touch, as if the fabric was non-existent and her head was filled with the mix of his cologne and fresh soap, making it hard to concentrate on anything else than his scent and body heat. It was simply intoxicating.

As they leaned forward, their bodies closely pressed together sending shivers across Franny's spine. There was only but a few inches between their faces, if one of them moved just by a hair, their lips would meet. As Benedict's eyes momentarily shifted to her lips, Franny noticed she was not alone in the thought, then they were back into glaring in her eyes. As navy met grey, she felt a burning sensation taking over her whole body, demanding and all-consuming, knocking all incomprehensible thought out of her head.

Benedict has never been short on confidence, he was a Bridgerton after all. His brother took him to a brothel on his eighteenth birthday where he discovered the pleasures of women and from that point, he rarely had any trouble finding willing participants to share his passions with. He low-key wanted half of the women he has met, but, of course, never had any indiscreet business with respectable young ladies, even if he desired them. He felt intrigued by Frances Granville over and over and yet she had refused him over and over, which, truth to be told, made him want to pursue her even more. He, like most men, liked a challenge, especially if the challenge was too smart for her own good, with long, wavy blonde hair and endlessly grey eyes with a never-ceasing defiant glint. Albeit, up until their dance he could never be sure whether she returned his attraction, but when she slipped his hands into hers, he knew it was only a matter of time before he won the game. He felt the exact moment when her body eased into the dance, eased into his body more precisely, and when she has finally given in. A triumphant grin spread on Benedict's face and he could not help but celebrate his victory.

"How do I do so far, Miss Granville? I might be as bold to say that you rather enjoy dancing with me. I might as well ask for your hand now," he teased, grinning from ear to ear, clearly feeling how Franny's body reacted to his. While Franny's heart skipped a beat, she felt an urge to challenge his confidence.

"Well you could, Mr. Bridgerton, but Lord Wetherby had beat you to it."

Benedict's body froze in the very instant. Not bothered by the least that they were in the middle of the dance, he grabbed her arm firmly and lead her away from the dance floor.

"Now what Mr. Bridgerton, I thought dancing and talking are very much compatible," Franny remarked slyly, enjoying how she has caught him off guard. He simply ignored her comment and continued to pave the way through the crowd. Franny would be surprised if they hadn't made the headline of tomorrow's Whistledown issue.

He anchored at the buffet table, once again distributing champagnes then proceeded to gulp one down in one go. Franny was surprised for no less than a second before she did the same. He looked at her addled, which made her chuckle.

"Now Mr. Bridgerton, we could attempt to drink each other under the table but I suppose that would not bode well for any of us."

"I do not think you should accept Wetherby's proposal," he declared, straight to the point.

"Hmm, and why is that?" Franny inquired, cocking her head slightly, brushing her hair to the side, revealing a white shoulder. Benedict resisted a sudden urge to kiss it.

Tired of his hesitation, Franny jumped in, "Does he have a record of gambling?"

"I do not think so."

"Has he any debts?"

"I don't believe so."

"Is he perhaps of dubious parentage?"

"As far as I know his family tree is impeccable."

"Hmm, is he maybe prone to violent moods, or has any kind of addiction?"

"I have never heard of any."

"Well then, dearest Mr. Bridgerton, we seem to be in agreement that he is a perfectly eligible and suitable gentleman, whom any lady would be lucky to marry, are we not?" Franny brought her intonation down and narrowed her eyes defiantly, enjoying every second of tormenting him. Balls, after all, were indeed endless fun.

"That he might be, but I don't think he is the right person for you," he confessed candidly.

"Well, if you are so keen on giving unsolicited marriage advice, please go ahead and make your point."

Benedict felt a sudden urge to put an end to her sarcasm by drawing his lips into hers, but by a very thin self-control, he had no idea from where he mustered, he stopped himself from committing the biggest scandal of the season.

"I am sure that it has completely escaped your attention, but we were having a rather enjoyable conversation when Wetherby has decided to interrupt and demanded you to dance with him as if you were his property."

"Oh, so this was the notorious second time I have turned down your offer to dance. Because you would have liked to triumph over him and claim me as your property, didn't you, Mr. Bridgerton?"

"Of course not!" he exclaimed, getting frustrated. "I would never treat any lady as my property, not that you would let anyone treat you like that. And that is exactly why Wetherby does not deserve you: he only sees you as a potential wife with an obnoxious attitude which will acquit him of most social events and nothing more."

"And why exactly is that any of your business, Mr. Bridgerton?"

He ran a hand over his messy coal-black hair before he decided to come clean.

"Because I like you, Frances Granville. And I want to fight over who should lead in a dance, criticise hideous pictures together and argue over anything under the sun," he blurted out, enjoying the shocked expression on her face, and not giving her the chance to refute him, he continued.

"And," he leaned closer, not crossing the line of indecency by a hair's-breadth, he whispered, "Judging by the way your body eased into mine, I have a slight suspicion that you might _like_ me as well."

Franny felt a shiver running through her spine as he pronounced her name. A colony of butterflies that have decided to inhabit her stomach under the radar chose that very moment to celebrate the Lunar New Year. She gulped and cleared her throat before she could speak.

"Well if you genuinely liked me, you should call me by my name. Those few who claim to like me call me Franny."

"I'll call you by your name if you call me by mine."

"Very well, _Benedict_ ,"

"Indeed, _Franny_."

They gazed into each other's eyes and silence descended on them.

"Would it be to your liking to go promenade tomorrow, Franny?" Benedict took advantage of his chance to pronounce her name and took pleasure in the little glint in her eyes when he did. Franny has decided that she very much liked the sound of her name in his deep voice and how it rolled on his lips. She was curious how her name would sound if her lips were on his.

"Well, I suppose we don't get the chance to explore Somerset House every day so we might do the second best."

"Well, I do believe there will be much material to criticise, more animate, but that should not pose us any challenge."

"Good point, Benedict," Franny has decided that she very much liked to address him by his name and how his lips curved into a small smile when she did. "I look forward to our rendezvous tomorrow."

✦

When Franny arrived at home, a bouquet of daisies was waiting for her in the drawing room. Did Colin Bridgerton fail to get her message?


	13. Auntie's Wicked Tales

However baffled we find ourselves that no marriage proposal had been made by a particular Prince to a particular Diamond of the First Water, Lady Trowbridge's soirée has offered us another pleasant surprise: Miss Granville and Mr. Benedict Bridgerton's very first and rather memorable dance. After some initial difficulties, probably involving a battle of wills, the two were perfectly in sync. Whether they were caught up in the sensual nature of the fete, or each other's considerable charm is hard to tell. Albeit, it is of no significance, because tonight's dance has dispelled any doubts, and this author must confess she harboured many, about the genuinity of their affections towards one another. Vigilant onlookers might have caught a moment when the pair struggled to keep the distance between them. In the end, nevertheless, they stayed within the bounds of appropriateness. Had there been a wayward touch, or God forbid, a kiss, Miss Granville would have been responsible for the biggest scandal of the season. Expected of her, yes, this kind, definitely no. Albeit, we hardly find ourselves shocked; the Bridgerton men, after all, are infamous for their charms."

✦

"Why does this Whistledown woman esteem me so little? Is it so impossible to imagine that dancing with Mr. Bridgerton was my choice and I was not swept off my feet by his charms?" Franny lamented, crumbling the latest issue into a furious little ball, “And for the matter of fact, _I_ asked _him_ to dance.”

“Hmm, did you? And what was his reaction?” Lucy inquired, turning her head towards the sun.

“I believe he found it rather amusing and gladly took me up on my offer.”

“That’s a plus point for Mr. Bridgerton. I applaud men whose ego is not fragile.”

“I always took him as someone with the right amount of confidence and a very good temper. Smiling through all the balls is a heroic achievement. Maybe because he has so many younger siblings. But then again, Anthony is the complete antithesis of patience.”

“A trait you are most familiar with, I would say.”

“Well, life is short, and I am not going to wait around for anyone.”

“Clearly, in your one and twenty years, you have certainly experienced how fleeting life is.”

“You are on a roll today, Auntie. I would really like to know, though, what Lady Whistledown has against me.”

"Well, you did declare, loud and proud, that you intended to have nothing to do with the Season. And here you are, dancing, with vigour, I must add, with one of the most sought-after catches. Not that I am complaining, I rejoice in the hateful sneer I receive from vulgar mamas green with envy," Lucy replied with a devilish smile on her angelic face.

“You find pleasure in the curious form of entertainment.”

“I would say that runs in the family.”

They both chuckled.

"You are rather enjoying this Auntie, are you not? Me making the headlines."

"Indeed I am. The Bridgertons might have a diamond, but I have something invaluable, fun."

They strolled on in silence, watching a young couple in front of them. The lady dropped her handkerchief and the gentleman came swiftly to her rescue.

“If I had known that dropping handkerchiefs was an act of swoon I would have paid more attention not to be so clumsy,” Franny murmured, “I should learn the art of the swoon in order not to wield it.”

“When you are a bit older, I will teach you how to pull the strings while letting them think they are in charge.”

“But why is that one must triumph over the other? Cannot we be on equal footing?”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Granville pondered for a moment. She considered herself to be enlightened both in theory and in practice, but her niece could always ask questions that caught her off guard, “I suppose there is something exciting in a challenge, of one chasing the other, even if it is only a game and mutual affection is assured. Albeit, each relationship is unique, and you must figure out what works for you.”

“But that is the thing, Auntie. I cannot figure _anything_ out about Benedict. When I am with him, everything just seems so easy, so natural and I just forget to worry.”

“Well if you are so keen on worrying all the time, I must warn you about premature death.”

“But I like worrying Auntie, that keeps me on edge.”

“Being always on edge has the danger of falling off the cliff.”

“You seem to contradict everything I say.”

“No, you contradict everything I say. And I do hope that Mr. Bridgerton shows up soon so you can continue bickering him.”

“Oh well, I see now why you are so keenly supporting our … whatever this is. You are eager to get rid of me.”

“Naturally, life was careless before we had a reluctant debutante on our hands. Less amusing, though.”

"Well, I am glad that I offer you entertainment," Franny grimaced, "But I hate to be presented as someone who has no control over the events. The dance with Mr. Bridgerton was equally my doing, clumsy and awkward yes, but still mine."

"Well, I suppose the question is how much autonomy we have over affections," Miss Granville commented absent-mindedly.

Franny grew quiet, squeezing the paper in her hands, "There's something I wanted to talk to you about, Auntie."

Lucy's eyes shifted to her niece and filled with affection, "What is it dear? I am all ears."

Franny bit her lips and scanned their surroundings nervously, making sure that the coast was clear.

"You know Auntie… I have never felt any kind of _affection_ towards anyone so far," she muttered, hesitating.

"Yes," Lucy answered patiently, knowing very well where the conversation was going, but giving enough time for her niece to collect her courage.

"Yesterday, when dancing with Benedict, something happened, I felt something that I have never experienced before."

"Yes," Lucy commented encouragingly, noting how Mr. Bridgerton suddenly became Benedict.

"At first I was awfully aware of everything. The missteps I took, how close we were, his hand on my hips, his eyes staring into mine. And it was awkward, I was uncomfortable, yet it almost felt… natural. When he asked me to let him lead, I was reluctant to do so, because... I don't know why… I reckon because I was afraid that if I gave up my resistance, I would lose control. Does that make sense?"

"Yes," came the same reply from Miss Granville, in a reassuring tone.

"When I finally did, when I let him take the lead, and let my inhibition go… When our bodies were pressed together, I felt his... tingling sensation taking over. It was hot, demanding, and I could not think straight. All I wanted at that moment was for him to be closer. I have no idea how, but that meddlesome Lady Whistledown is right, I was eager to kiss him and I am sure he felt the same. We didn't, of course, but we came perilously close."

"Franny dearest, what you are talking about, what you are experiencing is completely natural, it's called desire," Mrs. Granville explained, breaking her series of single-word answers.

"But I don't want that!" Franny exclaimed, and as a few heads turned towards them, she lowered her voice. Lucy chuckled lightly.

"And what is the reason behind this devoted resistance?"

"Because I don't want anyone to have that kind of power over me! I don't want anyone to waltz in, cast a lopsided smile at me and make all my incomprehensible thoughts to disappear. Why must I trade rationality with desire?"

"Hmm," Lucy pondered for a moment, "You must, and you must not. On the one hand, desire is a primordial, instinctive feeling, you can hardly rationalise it. You can spend your whole day or week telling yourself that you have no feelings for, for the sake of simplicity, let us say Mr. Bridgerton, and then he will cast that charming smile of his and all your inhibitions and resistance will be gone. That is true. Nevertheless, with hard work, distance, and most importantly time, you can subdue that feeling. The real question is, dearest, why would you want to do that? Is it because Mr. Bridgerton turns out to be insincere or indecent? Or is it because you are dreadfully afraid of commitment?"

The way Franny scrunched her eyebrows and grimaced thoughtfully, Miss Granville knew she hit the mark.

"You know Franny," Lucy reached out to grab her hand, "Vulnerability is not weakness, it is strength. You cannot learn anything new if you are convinced that you already know everything. You cannot be open to change if you are desperately clutching at things to stay the same. And most importantly, you cannot get close to anyone if you are keeping them at arm's length."

Franny walked on in silence, nervously examining the ground, not meeting her aunt's eyes.

"Do you want to get close to Mr. Bridgerton?"

"I think yes," she answered quietly after a moment of hesitation.

"Then you should not resist any of your feelings. Desire is the most natural manifestation of your affection towards him. There is nothing to be ashamed of."

"The whole society begs to differ, Auntie," she pointed out sarcastically.

Lucy took a deep breath before venting her spleen, "And I feel sorry for them. All these mamas keep reinforcing the dreadful conviction that ignorance is innocence. That this is the very foundation of the injustices and double standards that surround the whole topic of desire: men are free, encouraged and even praised for seeking pleasure with various women in brothels, while prim young ladies are expected to be fresh and innocent, not having their pretty little heads filled with any kind of indecent thought. As a result, most of them haven’t the faintest idea what to expect at their wedding, making them petrified and nervous which does not help their case. No niece of mine will be left in the dark about these matters.”

Franny quietly admired her aunt, the passion and charisma she was sparkling with when she spoke her mind. Even though they were not related, she could see from where she got her temper and veracity from.

“I once promised to explain these matters to you, and I believe the time has come.”

"But Auntie," Franny squeaked, eyes on stalks, turning red, "Are you sure this is the right place to do so?"

"Certainly so, do not worry, nobody is within earshot. Now that you have come to experience those feelings, you might as well make use of them."

"Make use of them, _how_?"

"Well, there are many, many choices, each offering fun, but for now, I shall corrupt you just a little bit."

Franny did not know that corruption had degrees. So far she has been thought that women were supposed to be good and mild, therefore feeling the tiniest spark of desire already meant eternal damnation.

"When you are alone in your room, in your bed, you can take your time to _ease into_ that feeling. You could think about how it felt when you were dancing with Mr. Bridgerton and imagine what else you would like him to do with him. Hmm?"

Franny's ears were burning, and she would have liked the ground to swallow her. Why was her aunt so keen on torturing her? And yet, she was immensely curious to find out more.

"And then, you can touch yourself. Anywhere on your body where it feels right, but most importantly, between your legs. You should feel the anticipation building up, your body tensing and in the end, a release," Mr. Granville explained with such an impeccable smile that the onlookers could have thought she was talking about the weather. Climatic conditions were discussed, surely, but not the weather-kind.

Franny frowned, unsure how to respond and whether she could squeeze any sound out.

Mrs. Granville continued, "And when the time comes, this will no longer be only in your head, and Mr. Bridgerton will be helping you to this release, more precisely you'll be helping each other. Albeit, for now, this should help you and we will continue this conversation in due time. I see that I am risking causing you a heart attack so I will stop. What is important to note, however, is that desire is not the cometh of evil, nor is it the prerogative of men. Of course, there are limits and rules to be respected, an equal result of prudeness and sensibility, but in your room and in your imagination, you should wonder free and not feel any shame."

Franny could not say anything but nod curtly.

"Anyway, your Bridgerton is late," Lucy deflected the topic to lighter matters.

 _And thank God for that_ , her niece thought. "He is not _my_ Bridgerton," she hissed.

"Well, in order to refer to him by his name, I would have to keep it in mind. And there are so many of them, it is hard to keep track."

"It is not, there are eight of them, only four of the opposite gender, one in leading strings, that leaves Anthony, Benedict and Colin and you know very well which one I am going to promenade with. Moreover, they are named in alphabetical order, that should give you enough clues," Franny vented, but as she stole a glance from the corner of her eyes she saw a smile playing on her aunt's face.

"You are teasing me!"

"It was too easy anyway."

"You are wicked, Auntie!"

"I am and I am proud of it. That is why I give the best advice."

"Well, I cannot argue with that... Nevertheless, I am sure Benedict has a valid reason for his tardiness."

"That is very understanding of you."

"Naturally, I fancy myself to be a rational person."

As her aunt did not reply, she quickly added, "Most of the time."

"And," Franny continued, "I shall be no different in my romantic affairs."

"Oh," Lucy raised her eyebrows, "So you have _romantic affairs_ now?"

"I do, Auntie," she replied, drawing herself up proudly. "After all that is why I am here, am I not? I intend to keep my end of the bargain."

"What bargain are you referring to?"

"The one I made with Uncle. I am giving a real chance to my suitors and if that fails, you'll provide for me for the rest of my life and let me live the glorious life of a spinster."

"Your Uncle has never been very good at striking deals... Except for me of course, he won the sweepstake."

“Of course,” Franny extended her tongue at her.


	14. The Aftermath of the Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original storyline Benedict first visits the Granville studio instead of attending the Trowbridge ball, and the night before Daphne's wedding he infamously hooks up with Lucy and Madame Delacroix. I decided to divert from this plot: Benedict was at the Trowbridge ball dancing with Franny (much to our delight) and he definitely will not be sleeping around the night before the wedding. The reason for this is because I want Franny to be the first who gets introduced to painting nights at the studio. You'll soon see how the events unfold. And I would like to thank you again for all the reads, kudos and comments. It's wonderful to get feedback from you and I am flattered that you enjoy Benedict and Franny's story.

Benedict was born second. It meant that when their father died only at the age of thirty-nine, Anthony, the first-born, assumed the role of the head of the family. All the duties and responsibilities fell on him: managing the financial matters of the family, guarding their sisters' dowries, and having to sire an heir to preserve the Bridgerton bloodline. Anthony was still very young to do so, having only just turned eighteen, and even though their father had taught him everything he needed to know, he was barely a man when he took over. But he did, according to his best abilities, and he continued to take family matters seriously. Being the second-born meant that Benedict never had to prepare for such a scenario: while he received an equal amount of love and attention from their father, he always had a little bit more freedom. It was overlooked if he did not do his calculations, rode a horse, or learnt about social customs as well as Anthony. And he liked it that way. Nevertheless, he always wondered whether he could carry the weight his brother did and came to the conclusion that he was lucky that he never had to. He loved his family immensely, he would walk through fire for each one of his siblings, and his mother, but he always lacked something Anthony instinctively seemed to possess. Anthony commanded respect with one severe glare and was father to their younger siblings when it was needed. Benedict, on the other hand, was always more easy-going, did not take life as seriously as his brother did, nor was his purpose laid down for him. And that was fine with him, having the freedom to explore what he wanted to do in life.

So, when his brother demanded him in an imperative tone to be his second while preparing their grandfather's old pistol, he froze to the spot  
So, when his brother demanded him in an imperative tone to be his second while preparing their grandfather's old pistol, he froze to the spot. Having the titles, estates, duties passed to him made him break out in cold sweat. As Anthony contemplated the possibilities of himself or Hastings dying methodically, Benedict could not utter a word. He loved his brother deeply, for as long as he could remember, he was always by his side. Bickering and teasing, challenging him to fencing and riding matches, laughing if he fell, but offering his hand immediately. Anthony was his very best friend who encouraged him to do better, listened deeply when he needed him to, and introduced him to the world. The thought of losing him was almost impossible to bear. However, at that very moment, all these dreaded scenarios came very close to reality. Benedict wanted to protest, to find another way, to work out another solution, but he understood that this was how matters were settled between gentlemen. If Anthony had not demanded satisfaction, all their sisters would bear the consequences, the very Bridgerton name would be tarnished, their father's legacy destroyed. Benedict knew very well that Anthony was ready to sacrifice his life to prevent that from happening.

As they rode in the dark, the cold wind was blowing, the city had yet to awaken, and was covered in thin darkness. Benedict had a never-ceasing worry in his stomach eating him up from inside out. Whatever was to transpire that night could be devastating. In the best case, one of them would be wounded, but even if that happened, there was no guarantee the doctor could intervene in time. As Benedict was riding his horse, with the pistol box under his arms, he could hardly register the movement. With each second passed they came closer and closer to a possible and very likely showdown. His brother was above furious and unapologetic; it was questionable whether he would fire wide and the duke too proud to yield meaning that one of them would possibly meet their ends.

The sun had come up by the time they reached their destination, offering very little warmth on the chilly morning. They stopped their horses, jumped down and consulted the doctor. Benedict's last hope was dissuaded when the man snorted sarcastically at the suggestion of being able to control a moving bullet. They could hear the horses neighing, foreshadowing the arrival of the duke. Benedict took his last chance to talk some sense into his brother, something on which he was also short. Anthony's final request concerned a lady Benedict must take care of, should he find himself unable so, and he could not deny him. As his brother handed him their late father's watch, his most precious family heirloom signifying his position as head of the Bridgertons, Benedict addressed him in a sombre tone, thousands of sentences came to his mind, but he could not formulate any as Anthony cut him off and hurried off. He was unyielding.

Will walked by his side and they examined the pistols with careful precision as the rules dictated, while Anthony glared in a frenzy at the duke who only met his eyes in the last minute to apologise. Benedict handed the pistol to his brother without a sound and uttered a prayer in his head. The irreversibility of the moment became clear as the opponents stood with their backs to each other. Both shouted "ready" and they started taking the steps slowly, drawing away from each other yet coming closer to the final moment. Benedict felt his heart in his throat and clutched on the wooden box as if his life depended on it. When they turned around, the duke held his arms up high in the air, while Anthony aimed the weapon at him, his hands shaking, his nostrils flaring, his eyes mad with fury. Then, after what felt like an eternity, a shot was fired but cut short by a blue-cloaked figure suddenly appearing on a white horse. Everyone rushed to Daphne's rescue, who, by one in a million chance, was not hurt. Shortly after, a shouting match has unfolded between Anthony and Daphne, so Benedict stepped in before his brother could jump at the duke. Anthony, growing impatient at the conversation, demanded the duel to be resumed. However, Daphne declared loud and clear that she and the duke were to be married. Benedict let out a deep breath, lowering the pistol in his hands, thanking that events were to be resolved by a wedding, and not a funeral. Finally, what probably had been the longest night since their father's death, came to an end.

✦

Benedict did not close his eyes for a second, as his body was filled with the mix of adrenalin and scotch he had helped himself to along with his younger brother, in a vain attempt to cloud their thoughts. Benedict's mind, however, could not be any sharper as it was racing with thousands of bloody scenarios and various deaths any of the participants could have suffered and which he would not get rid of soon. Finally, exhaustion has taken over his body, drifting him into faint sleep.

He awoke to an excruciating headache and a dry throat, barely able to register his surroundings. It took him some time before his thoughts rearranged into a coherent whole and it began to dawn on him that it was already tomorrow, and he was to promenade with Franny. His eyes shifted to the old mantel clock, the hands showing that he was already half an hour late. The gentlemanly thing would be to immediately send a note and a bouquet to apologise for his tardiness, pull himself together and show up with a penitent smile. Or to cancel the whole promenade altogether and deeply apologise. Benedict wasn't sure he could muster the strength to be a gentleman and a decent conversable companion. Albeit, staying in bed and reliving last night's events did not offer a better alternative either. In the end, he made up his mind that he wasn't going to break his promise. He got out of bed, washed quickly, changed his clothes and asked Humboldt to ready his horse. The carriage would have been too slow, and he needed some fresh air to clear his head.

✦

"Your prince has arrived, on a white horse, to boot," Lucy pointed out, spotting Benedict in the distance.

"Something is wrong," Franny commented in an anxious tone.

"Well, I hope whatever had kept him was a matter of life and death as he is late by an hour."

"Can you please be nice about it? I don't think he has slept much."

Lucy rolled her eyes, only mentally, of course; if she did not get to tease Franny's suitor why was she there at all? She did not protest, however, as she registered that her niece was waiting with bated breath, "Sure, dearest."

As Benedict was walking towards them Franny instinctively knew that something was amiss. His long steps were heavy, his shoulders crouched slightly and even from the distance she could see that the smile on his face was troubled.

"Mrs. Granville, Miss Granville," he bowed politely, and Franny noticed that even his hair was unusually and unintentionally messy, "I am terribly sorry for my tardiness. Please accept my sincere apologies. If I have already abused your time and you need to leave, I understand. But if not, it would be my pleasure to promenade."

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Bridgerton, we are glad that you could make it. My niece has already used up all her sarcastic comments on me so I would say your tardiness was most wise," Lucy replied without missing a beat, casting a charming look at him.

Benedict thanked her with a small smile, and he could feel Franny's searching gaze on him. She did not roll her eyes and that implied she had picked up on his mood.

"I shall leave you to discuss the latest affairs," Lucy added and waited for the young people to start their stroll, following them a few steps behind, out of earshot, but paying her chaperone duties.

"We've been blessed with good weather," Benedict commented, unable to bear another moment of silence.

"Indeed," Franny replied in an expectant tone.

"I hope it stays with us for the rest of the week."

"Indeed."

"It would definitely serve my sister's,"

"Benedict," Franny interrupted, fed up with the prattle, "I hope you do not expect me to act as if I cannot see that you have been through a rough night. If discussing the weather calms you down, I will gladly brush up on my knowledge on precipitation, however scarce that is. But if you want to share what ails you, I am all ears and I assure you I will tell no one."

Benedict bit his lower lip and let out a long, deep breath. Trust Franny would notice that something was amiss... Albeit, he did not expect her otherwise. She was right, after all, he did not get out of bed to discuss the weather. If he wanted to sulk, alone, he would have stayed at home.

"And," she added hesitantly, "As much as I am glad for your sister's engagement, it is rather suspicious that the duke has finally asked for Daphne's hand, when he was just about the leave London, not to mention that I was sure the prince would propose at Lady Trowbridge's ball. Taking all these into consideration, whatever has unfolded last night is not to be taken lightly. But I am sorry, I am rambling and not giving you a chance to catch your breath."

"Anthony and the duke had a duel last night," Benedict blurted out. Franny stopped, and her jaw fell. Frowning her brows, thinking deeply, she figured the non-spoken words out.

"And you stood as his second," she whispered under her breath.

"I did," Benedict did not question how she deduced that.

"Did... did Anthony get hurt?" she inquired, her eyes wide open. A flash of a smile appeared on Benedict's face. He knew that his brother and Franny did not exactly harbour the best relationship, but Franny's concern was genuine.

"No, nobody got hurt, thank God. Not even my sister who carelessly decided to ride into the middle of the duel."

Franny gasped, and words failed her.

"Albeit, she did manage to stop the duel and resolve the problem with the duke. Now they are trying to procure a special marriage license."

Franny nodded quietly. Procuring a special license could mean two things: true love or concealing a scandal. While she knew that the duke and Daphne were enamoured with each other, something untoward must have happened if a duel had taken place. It was most likely that the young couple had taken advantage of each other and Anthony had found out. Why the duke hadn't immediately proposed left Franny clueless, but it was only a minor detail compared to everything else.

"I am truly sorry Benedict," she consoled him, meeting his dark blue eyes. Benedict nodded slowly and his lips curved into an almost imperceptible, sad smile.

"I know how close you and your family are, it must have been beyond terrifying, having to stand second in your brother's duel."

"It was," he agreed in a quiet tone, "Ever since I can remember Anthony was always by my side, as a brother, as a best friend, as a confidant. Coming so close to having him hurt, or worse... even thinking about it takes my breath away."

They reached the bridge, stopping in the middle. Franny glanced at Benedict and her heart fell: his usually casual wind-blown hair was messy, there were dark circles under his eyes and the characteristic smile of his had no trace on his face. She felt a sudden urge to help him, to ease his pain, to offer her companionship. After taking a quick look around, she slowly slipped her hands into Benedict's.

After taking a quick look around, she slowly slipped her hands into Benedict's  
"Franny," Benedict muttered under his breath, scanning their surroundings.

"It's okay, the bridge is blocking the view, and no one is around," she whispered, looking straight ahead with an emotionless expression, "But of course, if you don't want me to,"

"No," Benedict interrupted, squeezing her hand, "This is perfect. Thank you."

Franny's heart leapt and she did her best to keep a straight face; she knew that if she stole a glance at Benedict her emotions would be revealed. They stood there for a few minutes in silence, catching the sun rays and enjoying each other's company with their hands locked in a secret embrace.

Benedict felt compelled to share his train of thought, "Most of the ton sees me and my brothers as interchangeable. They wouldn't miss a chance to remark how incredibly similar we are and jest about how we cannot be told apart. I have been referred to as "number two" on more occasions than I care to count. Sometimes I don't even know who I am besides being "number two". Do not get me wrong, I love my family, but sometimes it is difficult to be constantly surrounded by siblings."

Franny cocked her head slightly and examined Benedict with a curious look. A sad expression inhabited his face: his lower lip curved downwards with a scowl creasing his forehead. Franny loved how his facial expressions mirrored his inner thoughts, how he lowered his guard so frequently and how honesty came naturally to him. She struggled to show her emotions, therefore she found these qualities admirable in him.

"Well, I need not point out how artificial the ton is, but I would say it's their loss. You each are unique human beings with their aspirations and personalities. It is certainly true that you are the spitting image of each other, however, one need only to spend a little time with you to notice a world of differences. Albeit, I don't know how it feels to have a big family, being an only child myself... But I would say that you should definitely not limit yourself to being "number two", you need to figure out what makes you stand out. Your family gives you a safety net to fall back to, but you are very free to make your own definition."

Benedict stole a glance at Franny, her eyes sparkling with passion, her blond hair illuminated by the golden ray of sunshine, and he suppressed the urge to cup her jaw and draw her in a kiss.

"I am myself experimenting with the same. Although it is a bit different for me, a woman will always have fewer options than a man. Albeit, I do not intend to belittle your struggles. Being a member of such a prestigious and renowned family I suppose poses demands I cannot begin to fathom. And as an older brother to six younger siblings, I imagine you have your hands full."

Benedict chuckled lightly. As a small smile spread on his face Franny felt a warm feeling encompassing her. It was not desire, but something milder, something kinder... It was affection.

"Well, siblings can be a curse and a blessing at the same time. It also depends, of course, on the sibling. Francesca and Daphne are rather pleasant companies, while Eloise makes up for both of them."

Franny let out a heartfelt chuckle, "I haven't yet had the fortune of meeting her, but I like Eloise very much."

"I am rather fond of her, too. Indeed, I believe the two of you would get along well. After all, you share many similarities."

"We do?"

"Yes, both of you are too smart for your own good, headstrong, stubborn, not afraid to speak your minds and committed to managing everyone around you. Plus, both of you are strikingly beautiful and have no idea about it."

"Benedict," Franny muttered, blushing.

"Hmm, it probably wasn't my most gallant compliment, but I blame it on the lack of sleep."

Franny cleared her throat and tried to deflect the direction of the conversation, "And what has Eloise been up to lately? I noticed her sneaking around with a notebook."

Benedict narrowed his eyes, but decided to cut her some slack, "She is hellbent on discovering the identity of Lady Whistledown."

"Good for her," Franny beamed. "Let me know if she uncovers the truth. I have a few things I would like to say to that woman!"

"As such?"

"Well, the latest issue was not to my liking."

"Hmm, I found it strangely precise."

"You did?"

"Indeed. She described our dance with surprising accuracy. I certainly had a hard time keeping myself from kissing you. It is no different now."

"Benedict!" Franny squeaked, aware of how his hand was drawing small circles in her palm.

"I am done apologising for who I am and how I feel. And this is how I feel. I like you, Franny," he declared, locking his eyes into her. Franny felt a shiver running through her spine and bit her lips nervously. Did she reciprocate the feeling? She could ask her knees for an answer, had they not gone on a strike.

"I like you too Benedict," she replied boldly, meeting his gaze.

"I am glad that we got this straight. I would call on you, but tomorrow is my sister's wedding and you and your family have been invited."

"Have we?"

"I am positive that by the time you go home, you'll have the invitation waiting for you. Possibly something else as well to make up for my tardiness."

"I hope I'll find it my liking, then."

"And I must warn you, I intend to spend most of the time with you, and even incite a scandal by asking you to dance multiple times."

"In that case, I must warn _you_ that you might want to make an appointment, in light of the sea of suitors I have been entertaining lately."

Benedict frowned and examined her closely, unable to decide whether she was pulling his leg. The small smile in the corner of her mouth, however, revealed her.

"That shall pose no problems. I am a Bridgerton, after all, doors open for me."

Franny narrowed her eyes, but once again failed to imitate a genuinely irritated expression. Benedict chuckled, revealing one of his half-crooked, heartfelt characteristic smiles of him, making Franny's face light up.

"Although," Franny raised an eyebrow teasingly, "If Daphne is betrothed to the duke, it does mean that the Prince is a fair game, is he not?"

"You are wicked, Frances Granville."

"It runs in the family."


	15. Corruption [Part One]

Welcome back. How was your promenade?" Henry greeted the two new arrivals. Lucy deliberately chose to stay silent and eyed Franny curiously.

"It was fine," Franny answered shortly.

Lucy, nosy as she was, could not help but ask, "Did you find out what kept him?"

"He overslept, the whole Bridgerton household is abuzz with wedding preparations," Franny replied without turning a hair. She did not like lying to the Granvilles, but she was intent on keeping Benedict's secret. Not to mention that a duel could also count as a wedding preparation, provided that it had incited the wedding, couldn't it? One should not get frittered away with the terminology.

Lucy raised one of her perfect eyebrows, suspecting that something was awry, "Yes, I am sure that Daphne's brother had his hands full with the preparations. Although," Lucy's face rearranged into a sly grin, "We do know not that Mr. Bridgerton has a great taste in flowers."

Franny stared at her with a puzzled grimace.

"Speaking of which, these have arrived for you, Lucy dearest," Henry called out from the drawing room and Mrs. Granville walked in to examine the enormous display of purple irises.

"Indeed, his taste is impeccable," Lucy noted with a pleased smile, putting her petite nose into the flower.

"And that," Henry pointed towards a small package, "is for you, niece dearest."

"Hmm," Franny approached the silk-covered box and turned the card to read it:

_To Franny, to apologise for my tardiness. I inferred she would find it to her liking as it is my sister's favourite, she always monopolises it. Also, a kind reminder that we Bridgertons don't like to share._

_Benedict_

Confused, Franny opened the lid to reveal a set of Belgian bonbons in a variety of milk and white chocolates decorated with light pink dried rose petals.

"Hmm, Mr. Bridgerton sent hand-made chocolate. He is definitely a keeper," Lucy remarked, stealing one of the bonbons and uttering a sound of approval as she ate it.

"I don't understand. Why is it signed by Benedict?" Franny pondered, perplexed.

"Whatever are you talking about?" came the reply from her aunt.

"Well, it is Collin's handwriting, the same as it was for the daisies, the letter and the red roses."

Lucy broke into a peal of merry, tinkling laughter, making Henry smile widely and Franny huff.

"You ninny, were you under the impression that Colin Bridgerton was sending you the daisies?"

"Well, the handwriting,"

"I don't know about the handwriting," Lucy cut her off, "But it is obvious that if any of the Bridgerton brothers cared to figure out your favourite flowers, it would be Benedict. The roses, cliched and scenic, were obviously sent by his younger brother, but the daisies are definitely Benedict's doing."

Franny's jaw fell in an unladylike manner and she was unable to mutter a sound.

"Do you ever wonder how she can be so discerning and oblivious at the same," Lucy inquired her husband.

"I believe we have both benefited greatly so far from her selective attention," Henry replied.

"You know, I am standing right here," Franny muttered, meddling with the card in her hand.

✦

"Franny dearest, your Uncle and I have been talking," Lucy initiated a conversation over the dinner table while taking a small bite of artichoke.

"I imagine you do that quite frequently," Franny commented nonchalantly, chewing on the mushrooms, turning a blind eye to Mr. Granville's disapproving look.

"And you should definitely do it less often," Lucy shot back, not missing a beat.

Henry sighed quietly, the bickering between the Granville women being a quotidian feature of life, and added, "We have decided that let you come to my studio."

Franny's face immediately lit up, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Really?" she exclaimed, her tone high in excitement.

"You should accompany me after supper," Henry suggested, putting a hand over his drink, anticipating what was to come  
"You should accompany me after supper," Henry suggested, putting a hand over his drink, anticipating what was to come. The precautions were wise, as the table trembled when Franny jumped up. Lucy's was already holding her drink.

"I must make my equipment ready!"

"I assure you we are rather well-equipped."

"Uncle, if you think that I am not going to bring my favourite brush, having finally been granted access after years of pleading, then you are gravely mistaken."

"Very well, but at least eat up."

"I cannot eat, I am over the moon."

"I am sure Cook would be disappointed if you haven't tasted the cheesecake he made for you."

"With strawberries?"

"Was I born yesterday?"

"This evening could not get any better."

✦

"I am curious as to why now. After all, I have been pleading to you to let me in your studio ever since I was in leading strings."

"You'll see Franny that it is definitely not a place for anyone in leading strings."

"So, is it because I am out in society?"

"Partly yes. It is also because you have pointed out, most fairly I must add, that we cannot expect you to be honest with us if we keep secrets from you. It caused me profound sorrow that I couldn't be open with you about Lord Wetherby. I do not want to harbour any secrets between us. You are now a young lady, and you have demonstrated curiosity to learn about the world. In addition, you are a promising artist and I intend to give you all the support I can."

"Thank you, Uncle, I appreciate it. And I cannot wait to enter the den of iniquity."

Henry coughed awkwardly, making Franny frown. She hadn't the faintest idea what awaited her.

✦

The first thing that struck Franny was the strange and energising atmosphere. The light was dim, and the candles were sparkling a mysterious gleam. The air was buzzing with an electric feeling, the room was teeming with life and people of all kinds in leisurely attires and with messy hairs, having spots of paints on various parts of their body they seemed the most conscious of and least bothered by. They were chattering and laughing loudly with alcoholic beverages in their hands, surrounded by grey clouds of smoke. As the Granvilles entered, welcoming faces turned towards them, greeting them with kind smiles. A few curious gazes fell on Franny, but they did not hesitate to offer her a glass of champagne.

As she looked around, she wasn't surprised to find that every inch of the walls was covered in paintings, after all, it was no different at home. However, these pieces were of a different, livelier genre, capturing naked people, a very far cry from Somerset house. An intricately carved mirror with small figures framed the way to the living room. Franny found the most curious thing when her head turned sideways: two bare-naked women, one of them sitting on a chair, the other leaning against the Ionian column, turning their bodies, barely covered by white sheets, to seducing angles. Henry surveyed her niece closely, ready to offer explanations, wondering whether this was the final act that would condemn him to eternal damnation. Franny tilted her head slightly, narrowed her eyes concentration and took a small slip from her champagne, not taking her gaze off the models for a second. Henry noticed how she switched to what he labelled "the artist mode". There was no trace of shock on her face, but curiosity and vigilance as she was surveying the material to be captured, eternalised. He led Franny in, stopping at an easel.

The blond woman with curly hair clipped in a messy bun inhaled deeply from her cigarette and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, well, what have we here? I wouldn't have taken you for one who corrupts prim young ladies, Henry Granville," she remarked in a bickering tone.

"I am more than a willing participant," Franny replied instead of her uncle, adopting the same tone. A wide smile spread on the woman's face and she immediately took a liking to her.

"Let me introduce you Mary, one of my dearest friends. Mary, this if Franny, my niece," Henry introduced the two ladies to each other, and they shook hands.

"The infamous Frances Granville who has managed to piss off the Queen upon her arrival? I am absolutely pleased to make your acquaintance," Mary smiled from ear to ear.

"Now Mary, this is Franny's very first time at the studio, can I leave her in your care? I trust you will look out for her?"

" _Exactly_ how far should I be looking, Henry?" Mary queried, raising an eyebrow as a substitute to unspoken words.

"Well, she will not be attending the party after, but she has full liberty to do as she pleases during the _art session_."

"Very well. Come, Franny, let me corrupt you."

✦

"The whole ton is abuzz with the Bridgerton girl and the duke's wedding. It must be a love match if she had turned down a prince," a deep voice stated, two easels away. Franny liked that distance was measured in easels.

"To be frank, I will be surprised if she manages to drag him down the aisle," answered another in the back.

"As the saying goes, reformed rakes make the best husbands," came the reply from the first.

"I refute that there is such a thing as a reformed rake," Mary chimed in.

"Well, you certainly qualify as an expert of the topic, Mary," the owner of the answer ducked away from the brush flying in his direction. Franny chuckled, watching the squabble unfolding.

"Albeit, I am not sure the girl made the right decision. After losing half of its territory Prussia has embarked on a series of rather promising reforms," Mary pointed out and Franny raised her head excitedly.

"I agree," she heard her voice saying, "Prussia has such great potential! They have introduced compulsory schooling, for both boys and girls, state-funded, to boot... And it's free for poor people, which could be a real step towards equality and battling illiteracy."

"Aye, aye. Plus, the schools are secular," affirmed the first voice which belonged to a handsome smile.

"We are light years behind," added the second voice, a middle-aged lady with a bandana.

"That's Frank and Olga, regular guests. This is Franny, Henry's niece and a promising talent, I am told," the aforementioned people said hi and Franny blushed.

Mary hip bumped the younger, "I think you'll fit right in."

Franny nodded in approval, then as her eyes shifted to the models, she did not know where to start.

"I assume this is your first time to be painting nudes," Mary came to her rescue kindly.

Franny felt no need to feel ashamed of her novice. Young ladies, after all, were taught to paint landscapes, still-life and probably the most exciting thing that they got to capture was a great-grand aunt's poodle. She nodded.

"It is no different than anything else. You should sketch the supporting lines, and then work step by step on the details."

"Hmm," Franny murmured and surveyed the models. Perhaps the decent thing would have been to feel ashamed, but she did not blush. After all, a female body was not unknown to her, having inhibited one herself, although, as she was aware that hers boasted significantly fewer curves. But the woman's body was no different than hers, they were connected by a shared sense of destiny. Before getting to work, Franny always spent a few minutes examining the material closely, to plan the picture in her head. It was no different now, so after a few minutes of thinking, she grabbed the charcoal and started sketching. About an hour later Henry walked by Franny and watched as she was working, deep in her thoughts.

"You are free to remark how rubbish it is," Franny murmured, sensing her uncle's presence.

"There is no judgement here, Franny. And there is no perfect without practice."

"But," she ran a charcoal-covered hand over her hair in frustration, leaving black lines in the hay-coloured waves, "I just can't seem to catch on. Please, Uncle, offer your criticism."

"Hmm," Henry murmured, surveying the sketch, "You should work on her face. It seems expressionless, almost lacking life."

"That is because I don't know her. I feel strange to be covered in clothes while she is in front of me naked, bearing her body to me, and I don't even have the faintest idea of her name."

"Perhaps we should be painting naked," Mary interceded, and Henry shot her a frustrated look.

"Perhaps not. Franny, while it is undeniably true that the more you know the subject, the better you can reflect their personality, you need to learn how to capture the essence without having all the pieces of the puzzle."

Franny let out a frustrated sigh but could not continue her lament as upon hearing the doorbell, Henry left to entertain a new guest.

"Do not worry darling, you'll get the hang of it. Have another glass of champagne and start over. Plus, I wish that my first attempt had been this good."

Franny did as Mary told her, carefully putting the paper away and headed for the kitchen to help herself to another champagne. When she returned to the room with the drink in her hand, excited to resume her work, she was greeted by a familiar voice.

"What are you doing here?"


	16. Corruption [Part Two]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest, gentle readers, 
> 
> Here's something I am sure you've been waiting for and you most certainly deserve. I trust you'll find it to your liking. And do not worry, it does not involve Lucy or the modiste.
> 
> Enjoy,
> 
> L.H.

"What are you doing here," Benedict's dark eyebrow sickled upward upon seeing the last person he expected to meet.

Franny's first response was to mark her territory and point out that she lived there, but she realised that she did not inhabit the studio, per se. Feeling the fuzzy effect of the champagne mixed with the lively atmosphere, Franny got into the mood for some bantering.

"Why, Benedict, am I _not allowed_ to paint _naked women_?" she asked, her brow raised provocatively, putting one of her hands on her hips.

Benedict's eyes narrowed and the corner of his lips tilted into an almost imperceptible seductive smile. Being in a room with naked women wasn't a new experience for him, but the way Frances Granville's cheeks were coloured by an enticing shade of red, was enough to make his blood boil. Franny cast a triumphant smile, having heard Mary's chuckle, and walked across the room, settling at her easel.

"Well, I shall leave you to it then," Mr. Granville patted Benedict's shoulder with a kind smile, pretending not to have heard Franny's comment. "Should you need anything, I'll be in the next room."

"Dearest, I trust you will not bite our guest's head off," he turned to his niece on his way out, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I guess that will depend on how talented he is. You should have warned him that the least talented painter gets sacrificed."

"Pay no heed to her, Mr. Bridgerton. There is no judgement here, feel free to practice. Indeed, Franny could use some practice herself as well," Henry emphasised, ignoring his niece sticking her tongue at him and left the room.

Benedict stared at Franny a little bit longer than appropriate, then decided to get himself occupied with sketching. He was two easels away from her which gave Franny the perfect vantage point to steal curious gazes at him while pretending to look at the models. She watched from the corner of her eyes as Benedict took off his coat and settled at the easel. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing his tanned, long forearm with dark veins running under his skin, coal-black hair covering the outer part. Franny bit her lower lip instinctively and the charcoal almost fell out of her hand. She could never have imagined that a simple move could make liquid desire spread through her veins. Benedict, sensing her longing leer on him, looked up, and Franny tore her gaze away from him, nervously gulping from her champagne. Benedict's mouth curved into a small, seductive half-smile as he noticed that her cheeks turned into a lovely shade of fuchsia. He caught her right in the act, the blushing giving her away, revealing that she knew she was caught red-handed. Benedict felt a shiver of excitement run through him and he realised that he will have trouble keeping himself civilised. After a few minutes of sketching the models as an alibi, his eyes slowly moved to Franny, who was immersed in painting. Benedict took his time to make a mental picture of her: her brows frowned, how her delicate fingers crutched at the empty crystal glass, while her other hand was busy sketching. Her wavy hair, which always commanded his attention, was tied in a messy, impromptu bun with two brushes barely holding it together. He was almost rooting for the construction to fall apart, but his attention shifted to Franny's neck, usually covered by her endless hair. As Benedict's eyes trailed off her long, swanlike neck he imagined placing soft kisses on them all the way to behind her ear which would make her twitch and jump, giving him the perfect chance to move his lips to hers. Franny also sensed the heat of Benedict's gaze upon her and lifted her head, but Benedict, more experienced in the game, already arranged his eyes back to the paper, as if they have never been on Franny. Oh, but they were, and they both felt the lingering, aching effect of their thoughts.

After an hour or so of stealing secret glances of each other and imagining the mix of wholly inappropriate and sweet scenarios, only Mary and the two models were left from the like-minded gatherers. Benedict excused himself, and as soon as he was out of sight, Mary leaned over to Franny pryingly,

"So, who is this ravishingly handsome young man with whom you have been lusting over each other?"

"Mary," Franny squeaked, her face burning as if she hadn't spent the better part of the day thanking the company and the distance between her and Benedict for keeping her from really going down the road of damnation.

"There are two exceptionally gorgeous naked women in the room, and he spent half the time looking at them as glancing at you. The air was practically sparkling."

"Well, I guess he is my suitor, possibly..."

"He would certainly be _suitable_ for keeping you entertained at night,"

"Mary," Franny screeched, feeling the need for some fresh and very-very cold air.

"Alright, I apologise, I promised to corrupt you only just a little. But if you ever need advice on, you know, _birds and bees_ , you can always come to me," she winked at her.

Franny was growing tired of having been overloaded with women who were eager to explain certain matters to her. Can't she just be left in peace, sketching naked women, lusting over the devilishly handsome Benedict Bridgerton? Well, even in her head it sounded ridiculous.

Benedict returned, casting a smile upon his arrival, at no one in particular, but mostly at Franny.

"You can thank me later," Mary whispered, and before Franny could utter a sound, she was already in front of the models, "Darlings, I do believe that you deserve a break and some refreshments. Let me show you to the kitchen."

The models took Mary up on her offer, dropped the curtains carelessly, and walked out au naturel. Mary, with a wide smile on her seraphic face, extended her arms as showing the way. She then turned around to wink at Franny, proceeded to do the same at Benedict, and finally exited the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Franny and Benedict alone.

✦

Franny couldn't decide whether she wanted Benedict to cut or increase the distance between them, but either way, the intensity of his stare was enough to spark an instinctive need in her.

"We seem to have found ourselves short on models... just when I was _warming_ up," Benedict commented, choosing his words carefully.

Franny gulped, unable to tear her gaze away from him.

"Well, I have an idea," casting a playful smile at her, he crossed the room with two long-leaps. Franny let out a small sigh as he was safely out of way.

"Why don't we draw each other? I am sure both of us could use some practice," he suggested slyly and took a moment to enjoy the embarrassed expression on Franny's face, "Of course, we can keep our clothes on... if that's what you prefer."

Franny felt her ears burning and Benedict chuckled lightly as a deep shade of crimson inhibited her cheeks. She sipped her champagne as a substitute action. What happened to her sharp verbal skills and quick wits when she truly needed them?

"I don't think it's a good idea," Franny replied curtly.

"Sketching each other, or wearing our clothes?" Benedict, on the roll, shot back with a cheeky grin.

Franny huffed like an angry cat, making him crackle.

"Of course, Miss Granville, if you are afraid that you wouldn't be able to capture my ravishing handsomeness with enough precision, that would be most understandable."

Benedict knew very well that Franny would never miss a chance to rebut a conceited comment, and it was no different now.

"Certainly, this piece of paper is not enough to accommodate your ego, Mr. Bridgerton," Franny retorted sharply, coming around the bantering game.

Benedict swallowed a comment of what else could not fit on the piece of paper, and instead flashed a challenging, lop-sided smile.

"Do what you want then, Miss Granville, but I will try my best to capture the frustration in your eyes, I am sure it will be the crown jewel of Somerset House," Benedict replied, and began to work on the portrait. He started with outlining Franny's head, the rectangular contour of her face, her long, straight nose, the lips pursed in a thin line of aggravation, her eyes burning with grey fury, fuelled by a never-ceasing defiant glint. Although the coal could not accommodate them, the colours inhabited Benedict's memory vividly. Indeed, those sky-coloured eyes haunted him both in his sleep and in his wake. He marvelled at her long, elegant neck, then his eyes trailed to her porcelain skin laced with a shade of red, triggered by the warmth of the room and by Benedict's gaze. And then, there was her hair, almost always anywhere, not bearing to be tied down, to be arranged according to the latest fashion. Long waves shimmering with various shades of blonde: freshly-cut hay, a ray of morning sunshine, caramel and honey blended together. Benedict wanted to run his finger through them, cup the back of her head, slowly move upwards and take the brushes out so the waves would fall out. He shifted uncomfortably at his seat, having a hard time controlling his desire.

Franny could not stand Benedict's surveying gaze at her. He only tore his gaze away from her from time to time, offering momentary relief. With each second passing, Franny grew more and more uncomfortable, sensible of what Benedict saw: a squared face, with no cheekbones, and a bone structure more suitable for a man than a delicate lady, a nose too long and not fashionably curvy, lips too thin and almost always pursed, a pair of eyes with the dullest colour of blue possible. Not to mention a hair that was always pedantic, not letting it be arranged in any decent braid and giving her a constant look of dishevel. Franny knew that she looked plain and she could not bear another second of Benedict's searching look registering her shortcomings. But when she glanced at him, his face had no trace of a disapproving look, instead, his head was tilted slightly and his eyes, almost black in the dim light, narrowed in a thin line, dilated and lit up with a genuine glint as they met Franny's.

"Stop it," Franny demanded, tearing her gaze away from him to land on the floor.

"I am sorry," Benedict apologised, putting down the charcoal, "What is wrong, Franny?"

She didn't reply but took a small breath, fiddling with the hem of her dress on the verge of crying. Benedict walked across the room without a sound and kneeled in front of her. She shivered when he took her hands into his, registering the contact.

"Whatever is wrong, talk to me. I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable," he whispered softly, searching her face for an answer, but her eyes were still fixed on the floor.

"I cannot bear you looking at me like _that_ ," Franny whimpered, her throat dry.

"Like what?"

"Like," Franny gulped, having a hard time formulating words, "Like I am _beautiful_ ," She shivered at the mere thought.

Benedict gulped, unable to grasp how she failed to see the dashing beauty she possessed.

"Do not look at me like that because I know you are pretending," Franny went on, her voice laced with anger harboured for many, many years, "I am very well aware of my limitations and shortcomings. I never learnt to mince and walk delicately as all the prim ladies. I never learnt how to cast a mild expression or to confess my eternal indebtedness while batting my lashes demurely. Small talk never comes naturally to me and whenever I try to observe social customs I fail miserably. When I stand up, the table trembles and I always bump into everything. My hair never looks the right way, my movements are awkward and functional, and my body resembles more of a lanky teenage boy than a young debutante. So, Benedict, do not look at me with that expression because I know that you are pretending and I can never trust you again when I really, really like you. I constantly feel like a dim piece of coal among all these diamonds shining brightly," she confessed in one breath, her eyes burning, battling with tears, feeling an urgent need to run away.

Benedict gasped, hesitant of where to start. He lifted his hands slowly, and gently cupped her jaw so she would face him. Then their eyes met, his dark blue gaze sparkling with compassion and kindness robbed Franny of the ability to breathe.

"Well then, if you have provided such an apt description of yourself, let me contradict you. When I look at you, I see a young lady with surprising wit and confidence for her age. I see a person who is eager to search for more than what society has to offer, to challenge what is given and to look beyond what is taken for granted. I see someone with immense courage and a contagious personality. I see someone I equally respect, fear and admire and whose company constantly keeps me on edge and at peace, at the very same time. Every time I see your hair escaping from the bun I feel the urge to tuck my hand in it, every time I get to glance at your neck I feel the need to place kisses along it, and every time you smile at me I have a hard time keeping myself from drawing your body into an embrace and kissing you. You are beautiful, and anyone, including you, is a damn fool for saying otherwise," Benedict confessed, gently wiping a tear away on Franny's cheek.

"And for the record," Benedict continued in a soft tone, "I have always found coal immensely more useful than a diamond. You can keep a diamond in a box or use it to accentuate the beauty of a nice lady, but with coal, you can move trains, warm homes and draw your heart's deepest desire. And my deepest desire is you, Frances Granville."

Benedict's monologue left Franny so speechless that she could not mutter a word of protest, not that she wanted to. All her attention and energy were fixed on Benedict, the intensity of his stare, the closeness of his body and the pulsation feeling of need stemming from her very core. Franny's lips parted and quivered, then her eyes trailed off to Benedict's lips, giving him a subtle indication, the final encouragement. He leaned in, still cupping her face, and brushed his lips across her own, delicately with the barest hint of friction. She gasped at the contact and Benedict could feel her shivering. He drew himself away to give her a moment, but she grabbed his temple and pulled him closer. She parted her lips, giving Benedict access to explore her, to dive into a deeper kiss. Their tongues danced in a fierce battle, hungry for each other, guided by sheer desire. Franny let out a small moan as Benedict cupped one of her breasts, sending pulses of desire across her whole body.

"Hmm, maybe we should reconsider painting naked," Benedict whispered in her ears in a low, seductive voice, biting gently on her earlobe.

"Benedict!" Franny squeaked in a high-pitched voice.

"Should I stop?" he asked, tearing his tongue momentarily away from Franny's neck. She shook her head frantically and she could feel the smile in his kiss.

"Well then, let's see what we can do about this bodice," he suggested, his hands reaching across and finding the laces of the back of her dress, while his lips trailed back to Franny's mouth. Franny's finger ran through his coal-black hair which she always wanted to stroke, and she felt that she was getting good at kissing. How could this be a sin when it felt like heaven? But before Benedict could untie the knot, they heard a knock on the door.

"I am going to come in now," Mary's voice announced from outside, and after a few seconds of waiting, she slowly pushed the door open. The deliberate hesitation gave just enough time for Benedict and Franny to part.

When Mary stepped in, she found Benedict kneeling with his hair ruffled, in front of Franny, whose dress wasn't exactly fitting, offering her a brush that he masterfully freed a few moments ago.

"Here you go," Benedict muttered.

"Thank you," Franny answered curtly, stealing an awkward glance at Mary. She had an all-knowing smile on her face and the way her eyebrows arched implied that she had a perfect idea of what transpired between them.

"Right, I should go and..." Benedict mumbled.

"Yes, you should definitely," Mary snapped with a smug smile.

He cleared his throat and left the room reluctantly. Mary leaned across the door nonchalantly and folded her arms, "There was some heavy _painting_ going on here while I was away."

Franny blushed as she set her dress.

"Oh darling, leave that lovely shade of red for your suitor, I have done much, much worse. Remember what Henry said, there is no judgement here," Mary winked at Franny.

The mention of her uncle was enough to clear her head, "I should probably get myself together."

"You should. Henry will be back shortly, and I hope you have some material to show to him."

✦

After having collected themselves and with the door left wide open to stop them from giving in to temptation, Benedict and Franny, keeping the two-easels-distance between, were finalising their lines when Henry walked in.

"Well, well, I am sure tongues will wag that I have left my niece unchaperoned," Mr. Granville joked. Franny decided that keeping quiet was her best shot. Thankfully Benedict came to her rescue and cast a heartfelt smile at Henry.

"Mary had just left. Indeed, I was on my way to thank you for this lovely evening, and I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye."

"Show me what you got, Mr. Bridgerton," ignoring his pleasantries, Henry walked by Benedict to examine his work, "Hmm, you have great potential."

"It's nothing," Benedict drew his hands on his temple and Franny almost chuckled how sheepish he looked as compared to the straightforward and dashing demeanour he had adapted half an hour ago.

"Though, for such a staunch critic of others, you certainly lack a clear eye for your own work," Henry returned in an encouraging tone he many times adopted for Franny.

"It's the lines," Benedict knocked on the easel, blinking frustratedly, "Not what they are supposed to be."

Franny glanced at the drawing and noted that the lines were perfectly fine and took pride in Benedict's talent.

"Take the compliment, Bridgerton," the older man retorted, opening his palms, "There is no expectation of judgement here. You left all of that back in Mayfair."

"You can feel free to be yourself here," he continued, "If that is what you should like. It's what works for me, at least."

"Well it is definitely what works for me too," Franny chimed in, not wanting to be left out of the conversation. Benedict's eyes darted to her and the mischievous glint implied that he had a great time as well.

"And I haven't been dissatisfied with my lines in... well, quite some time," Henry added, missing the exchange.

"So, how do you plead, Mr. Bridgerton?" Franny inquired.

"Well, I've done worse, I suppose, really."

Benedict glanced up at Henry with a grateful expression and Franny felt a wave of adoration for he looked positively cute. And it didn't hurt either that her uncle and Benedict got on well.

"I seemed to have enjoyed myself too much this evening. I thank you for the night Mr. Granville. I should be on my way."

"As you wish. Indeed, Franny and I should get some rest as well, after all, we have a celebration to attend tomorrow. And you are welcome back anytime for practice and even conversation."

Benedict laughed and patted him on the back. On his way out, he stopped in front of Franny to drop a small kiss on the back of her hand, looking her deep in the eye. Franny blushed, which was remarkable given that his lips had explored much more of her body.

"And I will also be here, for conversation and _practice_ ," Franny said, doing her best to keep her tone even, not to raise her uncle's suspicion. Benedict's indulgent grin, however, implied that he took the hint.


End file.
